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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815746">Ember &amp; Emerald</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/linglingisinus/pseuds/linglingisinus'>linglingisinus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Twosetviolin, two set violin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AUTHOR AU, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Ling Ling - Freeform, M/M, Sensuality, breddy - Freeform, luthier au, twosetviolin - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:00:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,656</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29815746</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/linglingisinus/pseuds/linglingisinus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>And so shall the law be broken, oaths delivered with white lies. A family of regal, power, and monarchy finally kneels onto its submission to the public masses.</p><p>Is literature enough to change the world?</p><p>Or is the world too ignorant of literature?</p><p>Author!Brett and Luthier!Eddy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddy Chen &amp; Brett Yang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Familia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="u"><b>prologue.</b></span><br/>
<em>(n)</em> pro·logue, ˈprō-ˌlȯg<br/>
a separate introductory section of a literary or musical work.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What comes into your mind when you hear the word brother?</em>
</p><p>A companion through life? Bonded by blood? Perhaps a peer, or a loyal friend? What would you define as a brother?</p><p>I suppose I'm the worst person to answer that simpleton question. I didn't know, my brother is never around. We don't talk to each other, <em>no</em>, not one bit.</p><p>My parents will yell at us when we were kids, we were opposites. We were fire and water, I was corporate and he was a romantic, I am a junior he is a senior, I was repulsive the other was attractive.</p><p>He's a professor, while I traveled the land of Milram for my field of expertise. Buying, selling, and offering lands in the business.</p><p>We don't talk much to each other, not really. Seldom, rare, once in a blue moon. We only share a conversation when necessary, not acting coy in each other nor comfortable. Brothers in the business, not batting an eye for kindness.</p><p>Because emotions and feelings are not written in our family book. It is not exercised inside the premise of our palace, our servants are hushed to silence about it, love, pain, grief, jealousy, every single emotion must be banned at all costs.</p><p>But anger, anger is by far the <em>deadliest</em> emotion in the family.</p><p>Why?</p><p>It is the only exception in the list of prohibitions.</p><p>And so shall the law be broken, oaths delivered with white lies. A family of regal, power, and monarchy finally kneels onto its submission to the public masses.</p><p>Is literature enough to change the world?</p><p>Or is the world too ignorant of literature?</p><p>But let me remind you, that words are universal.</p><p>Galaxies will collide.</p><p>Love does not equal the law.</p><p>When their hearts ignite.</p><p>History will repeat itself, the same mistakes, the same public outrage.</p><p>And so shall I continue to watch in pity, as my family of royalty falters its graceful masquerade.</p><p>
  <em>(The guilt that carries my soul and withers my heart, he was my brother nonetheless. He did not deserve that, he did not deserve it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So please, forgive me. Forgive me for my selfish thoughts. Forgive me for my ignorance.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Forgive me for living.)</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A prayer for Cupid</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a fairy tale for the romanticist, and brutal war for the lawful. welcome to the land of Milram, surrounded with stunning nature, a river of mountains, families of nobility, prestigious academies, and a population in love with books.</p><p>for pretty faces, their woes and miseries are nothing but a cry for help. but for the commoners, they simply cannot mope around and feel down, for the rich gets to be richer with no effort, the poor get to be poorer despite working hard.</p><p>so, shall both statuses be so inclined to be soulmates in an unfair battle against law and love?</p><p>but as the legends say, all is fair in love and war.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I faintly remember the words I wrote on my arm. I reached out to you, and it pains me that you never wrote back. I apologize for the scratched words, I am well aware that the writing is not at all graceful.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If you are somewhere in Milram, please, would you send a letter? Meet me at the Academy? Write back? Anything.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have been waiting for you all my life, please do not fade away like the rest of them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please, talk to me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please . . . I have been all alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Please-</em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>His memories as a child are a haze.</p><p>All he could remember was trying to ride a horse on its back and watching the sun die down together with his younger brother and his father.</p><p>All he could remember was the giddy feeling of the possibility that your soulmate can reach you through writing on your arm.</p><p>All he could remember was questioning why people have different statuses, why can't all people be <em>rich</em>? Why can't all people be <em>poor</em>? Why are they born differently? Then he recalls how harsh his mother slapped his mouth, silencing him.</p><p>All he could remember was the delectable pastries his mother and her servants baked and he tried to put them all in his mouth before trying to shut his tears down because his mother found it <em>immature</em>.</p><p>All he could remember was the bruising patches of red and blue that took abode in his arms whenever his father would hit him.</p><p>All he could remember was when his fingers pulsated a worryingly bright red when his mother would punish him, slapping his hands with a slab for crying like a baby.</p><p>All he could remember was when he tried to make his little brother happy, they were chuckling their little tummies off before being scolded at by their parents to tone down their voices.</p><p>All he could remember were the memories he <em>didn't</em> want to remember.</p><p>His parents will always remind them, as children,<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"You do not need emotions in everything you say or do."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And he grew up to be like that. Quiet, timid, not speaking a word nor trying to initiate a conversation. No one knows what's going on inside the mind of his.</p><p>And so he continued to be the silent older brother.</p><p>Upon his discovery of books, however, he fell in love with how it can build up an entire universe of different outcomes and settings. And so, he tried to write himself.</p><p>It wasn't good at first, he knew that. But he practiced. Practiced, and <em>practiced</em>. Even showing some of his work to his younger brother who quickly read his novel about detectives going missing.</p><p>Often times, he would prefer to read a book than to socialize with other ladies in the family. Or other ladies who took a fancy in him.</p><p>But little did everyone know that below the layers of grace and beauty his family possesses that is just the facade they wanted people to see.</p><p>His father was <em>secretly</em> an alcoholic. Drinking his stress and problems away with rum, brandy, champagne, whiskey, whatever substance that can make him drunk.</p><p>His consciousness remains submissive to his drunkenness, leading himself to his very own demise with one stupid decision.</p><p>"Are you screwing with that <em>useless</em> merchant!?"</p><p>It was the very first time he saw his father screaming in anger, face flushed in fury.</p><p>His mother was moving around the room, protecting herself to the danger her husband can do.</p><p>"What do you mean!? I have not been screwing with anyone, I have been a housewife for this palace! Have you forgotten about that?"</p><p>His father started to calm down.</p><p>He took a step back.</p><p>Grabbed the bottle of champagne.</p><p>And swung it to her wife's head.</p><p>The shards of glass and liquor spewed across the lady's head, on her gown, and on the floor.</p><p>"That's what you get for whores like you."</p><p>He stopped peaking, quietly but briskly, he ran away from his father's office and into his room.</p><p>Passing by a couple of servants, eyeing him weirdly, he was running with tears forming and falling in his eyes.</p><p>He tried to calm himself down and took a couple of breaths before falling back into his comfortable bed.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Why is my father like this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why am I born like this?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why am I crying?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why am I angry?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Why didn't I do anything!?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The soft linen, satin, and silk. Wrecked and torn with fury. Rage building and building, he grabbed every single pillow he has and punched it.</p><p>Not once.</p><p>Not twice.</p><p>Several and multiple times.</p><p>His oxygen has ran out, there were no tears left to cry, his voice has gone raspy, and his knuckles pulsing red.</p><p>No proper gentlemen should hit their wives like that, no proper father should raise their voice to a lady like that.</p><p>And no proper son should tolerate violence like that.</p><p>He has never felt a wave of sudden disappointment in himself. There was no frolicking around.</p><p>All he can remember was the numbing pain in his chest that slowly blooms like a sunflower, getting larger, and <em>larger</em>. Following the sun to which direction to face, then wilting gradually.</p><p>That his happiness once cheery yellow has been burned to an ugly brown.</p><p>He cannot speak further, <em>no</em>, people may hear that. So he resolved his thoughts, his disappointment, his emotions into writing.</p><p>Poems upon poems, novels upon novels. Until the sun rises and he starts to forget the conflict inside the palace, he keeps on writing.</p><p>That quickly turned useless.</p><p>"What do you mean--you are a powerful man, but what is going inside the <em>bloody</em> head of yours!?"</p><p>His father was weirdly calm, flicking the cigar's excess ash. The <em>'clink'</em> sounds of the glass made him alert, "Ah, I killed him. Plain and simple. I do <em>not</em> need a merchant that works for me yet has the guts to press his lips to my wife's body."</p><p>He stood up as if he was frozen in time. He did not want to speak a word. Slowly analyzing <em>everything</em>.</p><p>"This is inhumane! You cannot do this . . . You simply can't."</p><p>"I can Martha. I've done it countless times."</p><p>Her voice with anger had become sharp, almost strident, "You, you're a monster."</p><p>How his mother raised her tone, <em>concerned</em>.</p><p>A stark contrast to his father's <em>calm</em> stature.</p><p>The servant's soft <em>sniffles</em>.</p><p>Breaking the tense silence, and a quick sip of his whiskey his father responded,</p><p>"Law is something you get to break when you're rich my dear." Glaring at his sons, "That is why my son is going to become a lawyer. Maybe even a businessman like me."</p><p>
  <em>A businessman like you? Who steals commoner's lands to profit off of machinery? I despise you, I want you to rot in hell with your sins, I want you to be caught by your selfish negligence.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You do not deserve the riches you have, Father.</em>
</p><p>Sadly, his thoughts are not poems or a paragraph to his novels. His anger towards his father can never be decoded with his emotionless face.</p><p>His father stood up, commanding his butler's assistance for putting on his frock coat.</p><p>"I expect Bretton to be put under Law school. No other career options shall suffice."</p><p>While his mother tried to duel, he started hating his own name. The name people call him, know of him, and address him.</p><p>He did not want to become a lawyer. He wanted to be a writer.</p><p>He despised the name, <em>Bretton</em>.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>"Have you met your soulmate yet?"</p><p>Sophie asks, curious over the poems he was writing.</p><p>"Oh, pardon me Sophie I was writing." He placed the quilt on the side, his ink accompanying it as well.</p><p>"It is alright, I have noticed that you're as silent as a mouse these days."</p><p>"I do not talk a lot . . ."</p><p>"And why is that?" She asks, sitting together with Bretton in the green fields. Her puffy gown protecting her body against dirt and bugs, her frilly socks covering her legs, she remains carefree yet elegant.</p><p>"I just don't see myself worthy to listen to, so I write." His lips creasing to a smile. "I have been trying to contact my soulmate just to answer your daring question."</p><p>"For someone silent, you speak volumes." She smiled, carefully pointing at his leather hardbound book, "May I? Read some of them?"</p><p>He was fine with that, Sophie's company has been <em>comforting</em>. She wasn't pushy, she's refined like a lady already, she's playing the piano effortlessly despite her young age, she's done so many accomplishments than him.</p><p>His hands start to tremble upon reaching it to her, she noticed it immediately.</p><p>"Are you alright?"</p><p>"I am well. Feel free to read some of them. These are poems I have written for my soulmate. But they . . . they never responded."</p><p>With the steady cold breeze in the fields, the sun about to go down, the animals grazing across the land, it was <em>picturesque</em>.</p><p>This was the perfect spot to spend the day with his soulmate. Sadly, it's not Sophie. Plus he cannot see Sophie other than a friend, a colleague, and a wonderful company to be with.</p><p>After reading his book of random poems, the soft sunlight hits her blue eyes brimmed with beads of tears, mahogany strands danced together with the random dandelions seeds, her lips almost trembling.</p><p>With concern, he asked, "Sophie? Are you alright? Why are you crying?"</p><p>"Oh, pardon me! I just, I'm just . . . " he fumbles over his pockets for a spare handkerchief to wipe off Sophie's tears.</p><p>"You just write so <em>beautifully</em>." She sniffled softly, frail and fragile. "Your soulmate is the luckiest person on earth Bretton. Have you ever thought about writing a book?"</p><p>And as much as how happy he is with the compliments he received from Sophie, the skies start to go dark and the chilling temperature drops to ice. His happiness faded away when he remembered that he cannot be a writer.</p><p>He <em>cannot</em> be a writer.</p><p>His father wanted him to study Law.</p><p>He shall <em>not</em> be a writer.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Bretton Yang, Entry no. 189</b>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">07. 21. 1847</span>
</p><p>Let me not to the falsies of love.</p><p>Alter the sun when in need of alterations.</p><p>Burn all the fields in search of defamation.</p><p>To the skies, not to cry above.</p><p>Shall love be destructive, then let me be.</p><p>Nor shall love be fragile, still, let me be.</p><p>Time is endless for those who love.</p><p>Yet seconds running ever-swiftly.</p><p>For I have not loved.</p><p>Perhaps I am difficult to be loved.</p><p>Time remains fading ever-swiftly.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>"I refuse."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>He is tired. He is tired of pretending he couldn't write. He is tired of pretending that he isn't worthy of writing. He knew what he wanted, and that, he will achieve it.</p><p>Screw his pompous father.</p><p>Screw his false analogy.</p><p>Screw him entirely.</p><p>"You heard me, papa," he stood up straightly, for once his voice was roaring in his father's office. "I refuse."</p><p>"No. You will go to Law school. Follow my instructions at this very moment young man." His father slammed his palms at his wooden desk. He isn't drunk, nor is he smoking. A logical time to argue with him. No alcohol to lure him into doing immoral actions, nor nicotine to melt his logic.</p><p>Bretton shook his head. "I refuse. I would rather die than take up Law. I do not want to be engaged in it, nor do I want to be known as a lawyer. How hypocritical of me to become a man of law when you, yourself have broken one . . . Papa. Have you ever thought of that?"</p><p>"Do not trick me with your words Bretton!" He fumed. "You will be departed to Lotham shortly and you shall not refuse!"</p><p>"No." He kept on insisting. "No Papa. I would like to be a writer."</p><p>His father roared in a peal of maniacal laughter, erupting loud cackles in the room. His butler looking startled and disturbed.</p><p>"A writer! A writer you say? Fine, do you want to write about the girly flowers and nature?" He mocked.</p><p>Although it hurts, he has to accept this reality. His father does not see writing as a career. But he will prove him wrong.</p><p>"Maybe I do father. Maybe I don't. Give me five years and I will show you that writing is not futile. Once I start to write, you will be <em>proud</em> to have my books at your inventory."</p><p>And for once, it seems that they're both on the same page. His father finally caved in, trying to persuade his son to pursue law is useless.</p><p>"Fine. Five years. Pick any institution you wish to study at. When you come back, I need to have proof of your own published book. If you fail, I will not hesitate to kill you with my bare hands."</p><p>He remembered how easily his father got away with murder, so this is how it is.</p><p>An eye for an eye.</p><p>A tooth for a tooth.</p><p>A career choice for a son.</p><p>He was nervous, of course, he was. He was betting his life on the line. But he wanted to continue this dream of his, then he's going to do it. Bretton made his way to the spruce door, but before he can leave his father spoke,</p><p>"If you are to become a writer, I want you to excel at it. I will not accept mediocrity in this family."</p><p>He couldn't believe it himself that he was more than happy to say, "Of course, Papa."</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>In the land of Milram, there was only one Academy that entertains studying fine arts, music, and literature. He wanted to move to South Pasinthe despite being millions of miles away from his hometown, mainly because it is the land where raw talent and passion meet.</p><p>For now, he's stuck in Milram.</p><p>Come to think of it, landing at the Academy was quite an adventure. For once, he didn't have his parents meddling around with his studies, he can roam around the city more frequently, and he's seen the rowdy behaviors of commoners. He didn't despise it no, it's actually quite interesting.</p><p>Oh, also, he may or may not have had some flings with other ladies at the campus.</p><p>He's not a sexually driven man, no, he is not even cupid kind of romantic, but he guessed the words he spoke to the ladies that he once loved struck them.</p><p>That sometimes, even if their relationship has already passed and he has moved on, a letter indicating that they wanted a second chance will always end up in his inventory.</p><p>Now, did he slack off during lectures?</p><p>No. <em>Never</em>.</p><p>Maybe that was another thing ladies are fond of, men that like their studies. He's had some chatters with fellow aristocrats on the matter, and they admitted that yes, indeed. Women quite fancy men that are intelligent in their studies.</p><p>Did that interest Brett at studying hard? Not necessarily. He's doing it already.</p><p>But did it make his mundane days of university just a tad bit exciting? Definitely.</p><p>And so, from the famous books and novels of crime scenes, the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, he prepared for combat and harsh criticism against his book of poetry. All about love and mischief.</p><p>When he published his book, he was only expecting his colleagues, and people from the Academy to read it.</p><p>He even had to advertise his own book to small bookshops in the city, where most commoners lurk in. He didn't mind really, literature is not a means for the rich, it shall be enjoyed for all.</p><p>There was a time when he hailed a small gathering around the market, speaking his poems to a small crowd, mostly children and teenagers who are interested in the deep words he pronounces eloquently. They start to ask how to read, then how to write, he was able to teach little children and lads alike about literature. Stories, fables, poems, and more.</p><p>He would always teach them weekly, right beside the kind lady that sold fruits. It was obvious that he's not a commoner because quite frankly, his expensive coats and the carefully tailored outfit is obvious, his boots are shinier in comparison to other merchants, and his intellect is far too advanced in comparison to his pupils.</p><p>Every time he visits the same spot of a blank wooden wall and the cobblestone floor, he was seeing a steady increase in students. This small gathering of sharing poems and stories has become a hobby, leading him to have a desire to teach.</p><p>From what was once a class for youngsters, even women are starting to take an interest in reading and writing.</p><p>Slowly but surely, people were starting to take an interest in his book. More specifically, addressing some of the poems to their soulmates. Perhaps writing a certain passage, a certain line, a certain paragraph. To connect immensely with their beloved.</p><p>Fortunately, his father was impressed. Not just with a book, fully published and spread out across Milram no, amused at the fact his son is doing particularly well. Living up to the family name, perhaps doing better than he would've expected.</p><p>Bretton still finds himself lonely, within 5 years he has studied dutifully, loved random people, and wrote about them, but where is his soulmate?</p><p>Why can't his soulmate talk to him? Where are they? How many years of misery shall dread on before he can meet him?</p><p>Shall he continue to love other people that are not meant to be his? Shall he force himself upon people he wasn't meant to love?</p><p>Shall he, give up on finding his one true love?</p><p>No, that would be too hypocritical. That is <em>too</em> hypocritical, the writer and poet of love but seeks of useless tactics.</p><p>As he graduates with a degree, he knew it's just the start of his journey.</p><p>And so he moves onto studying for his Masters, opting to become a diligent professor at the Milram Academy.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>If the woes of the regal are about their privileges and riches, think about the ones that live in the villages.</p><p>He didn't know how to read and spell, he didn't know how to do basic maths, he's just a commoner after all and what matters most to him was food.</p><p>What food to eat today, is it bread from the local bakery? Perhaps some bland fish and chips again from the nearby pub? Or maybe the kind lady from the market will give him free fruits again?</p><p>Food, he <em>needs</em> food.</p><p>Sadly, as young as 16 years old he was all alone by himself. His family has died in the plague, they did not have enough money to cure the sickness and decided to accept death instead.</p><p>While roaming around the market in the capital, he saw a man, tuning and making an instrument of some sort. It was small, made out of wood, together with a long stick that he couldn't make up for its name.</p><p>So he tried his best to become one like him, doing daily errands, wiping the window clean to the shop, anything so he can have a grasp of the wooden instrument.</p><p>As he continued to work hard, the man finally caved in and started noticing his efforts. Soon, Edward started to learn everything about the shop, the owner, and of course the instrument.</p><p>From a random amazed beggar to his errands boy, then to his assistant he started to learn every bits and piece of information about playing, creating, and handling the instrument to a tee.</p><p>His mentor, Sir Olaf, he's addressed as a luthier, the instrument in his shop is called a violin, and when played properly it can produce beautiful harmonies that are far too elegant for his taste.</p><p>Over the years he's come to an agreement with Olaf that he will work for other people too to keep himself alive, he works for other middle-class businessmen as well, doesn't matter if it's cleaning some cow dung, doesn't matter if it's chopping up wood, any kind of coin, pound, money he has in his pocket all of it directly goes to food.</p><p>While working for the luthier, he was too focused on chopping pieces of spruce wood that he didn't notice Olaf was talking to him.</p><p>"Bloody hell mate, I know you're a young lad but don't tell me your ears are deaf!" The luthier jokingly says, nudging his elbow, stealing his attention and making him alert than before.</p><p>He wipes the bead of sweat that nestled in his forehead, "Sorry Mister, the wood is difficult to chop up."</p><p>"Say for a fellow like you, do you ever think about going to school?"</p><p>"An academy of some sort? But Mister, I do not know how to read o'er books and maths. It doesn't appeal to me." Edward chops another block of wood.</p><p>"With the way you talk and flounce like that, your parents were once rich no?"</p><p>"I think so Mister, do I sound like a prince?" He said, then mocking a snobby rich guy, the man laughed at his humor.</p><p>"Here," Olaf offered him a flyer, in elegant calligraphy letters it says 'learn how to read and write', "One of my mates is doing free classes and I thought you might want to know something from him."</p><p>"Sorry Mister, but even with this flyer alone," he scratched his hand at the back of his neck, "I do not understand anything."</p><p>"My, it's outside Milram Academy. Be at your best clothes, I can even lend you some of mine!"</p><p>An academy, filled with aristocrats and nobility, will he finally be able to be just like them? To live a life filled with luxury and riches?</p><p>
  <em>Ah, one could dream.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>"Good morning sires and ladies, my name is Bretton Yang, and welcome to learning how to read and write."</p><p>Edward scanned the place, filled with different demographics. An alarming number of female commoners were there, either as pupils or simply taking an interest in the man.</p><p>The professor grabbed a piece of chalk from his olive green vest, <em>whoah</em>, this is a man of nobility. A royal!</p><p>He nudged his elbow to a little kid beside him, "Is he any good?"</p><p>"Really good! I started learning how to spell my name and read it out! Look," he points at the scroll, quite a strange name, "Ling Ling. I learned it the first time I went to his class!"</p><p>Edward nodded with the piece of information, sounds like a child prodigy, but it looks like the professor teaches well.</p><p>They went over the alphabet, most commoners already pronouncing it easily. But Edward <em>strangely</em> didn't felt left out.</p><p>For a brief moment, as Professor Yang goes on to discuss synonyms, he made an expression that clearly labels as, <em>confused</em>.</p><p>The professor chuckled tenderly at him, "Yes lad, what is it that you are confused about?"</p><p>He scratched the back of his head and spoke boldly, "Mate, I don't understand why some words have to mean the same thing."</p><p>The professor smiled brightly at Edward's question, "That is one way to put it," he placed his leather-bound book at the wooden carton, together with the free inks, quilts and freshly bounded blank books perfect for a curious student to write in it, "My dear pupils, you have to remember that language is made by fellow humans as well. Shall there be any complications in it, it is quite normal and there's nothing to fear."</p><p>He walks back into the wooden board, tapping his chalk to point back to the lesson, "But, remember that there are a few rules in writing. Capitalization, basic parts of the sentences, then going back to the gentleman's question, synonyms."</p><p>"To be frank, synonyms are quite the treat, aren't they? If you're to create a poem like other writers right now, then do not be afraid to use them." He walks into the middle of the crowd, out of nowhere flashing his skills in romance, "Lips red like cherry, that is a synonym."</p><p>Ling ling raises his hand, the professor gestured his hand to speak, "Anger, loud and blasting!"</p><p>"Excellent!"</p><p>A young girl raises her hand as well, "Flowers, soft and . . . weak!"</p><p>Bretton snorted, "Weak . . . Hm, frail or fragile is more fitting darling."</p><p>A lady raises her hand, "The ocean, blue and cerulean."</p><p>"Good choice of words madame, you have been improving since our last class!"</p><p>Everyone gave an example of their own until it was Edward's turn,</p><p>"Love, lonely and painful."</p><p>
  <em>(It sparked an emblem that was once doused in his own delirium, Cupid must be on his tippy toes waltzing over the clouds, swaying his body in mellifluous joy. A sudden pause, an eye contact, his round glasses giving him a pretty sight over the commoner that piqued his interest.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He knows romance all too well, he knew his heart had the same sentiment as him. An arrow, piercing through his chest, dear Cupid are you happy now?)</em>
</p><p>He ignored the sudden pang of sadness that loomed in his chest, most of his pupils reacted, some shared the same sentiments, others were left astounded. Bretton's lips curved to a smile and testified over his false allegations about the meaning of love.</p><p>"Love can be lonely and painful, yes. But love all the same is the fleeting feeling of heaven made on earth. You can find your soulmate, <em>maybe here</em>, when you start to write on your wrist or your arms. But my dear pupils, love will always hurt. Even if it is your soulmate, it would still hurt. But you know what is the most painful above all?"</p><p>His crowd of pupils following every word, every syllable, every sentence. Detecting his preaches, turning them into gospel.</p><p>"Loving someone that wasn't meant to be yours. But even so, you shall love the people you want to love. Trust me, it is divine once you know when their love will come back to you."</p><p>While most of the pupils clapped their hands in awe with his <em>extemporaneous speech</em>, as he processed the words he just uttered he noticed that the man who told him that love is painful and is confused about synonyms, was writing down in his scroll furiously. Perhaps noting down his speech? Who knows.</p><p>As the session comes to an end, Bretton distributes the writing materials together with his book and another empty book that serves as a journal for his young rookies.</p><p>Edward grabs the quilt and ink for the first time, writing in his wrist a small greeting of, "Hello."</p><p>And he swore, he swore that his eyes don't lie. When he saw the scribbled greeting in the professor's right wrist he went to a nearby river and washed the ink immediately.</p><p>That <em>can't</em> be possible.</p><p>
  <em>(Cupid, what other plans do you have?)</em>
</p><p><br/>
-</p><p> </p><p>"Writing is <em>futile</em>. Bussiness will stay for centuries to come." His younger brother eats the seasoned mutton effortlessly, his bib placed all snug around his neck, he raises his eyebrow back to his brother, "Why? Aren't I correct."</p><p>His father sat at his usual chair, "Arthur, Bretton, it is only rare that we get to see each other. A little sympathy for both of you would be very much marvelous."</p><p>He waved his hand dismissively, who was the man he saw that grew up to become noble and full of manners?</p><p>"Sympathy does not look like a word in his books, after all, it is not I who got into business, therefore my mind does not comprise of money and riches." scoffing with sarcasm, he bites innocently into a clump of mash potatoes before smiling back to his nemesis.</p><p>"Money rules the world, Bretton. I could buy all your books in a snap and you won't even need to publish them anymore."</p><p>"Love rules the world, Arthur. I do not need riches to woo ladies after me, after all, you buy their bodies. You look after <em>whores</em> and not true love."</p><p>That made his father choke in his green beans.</p><p>He heard the soft giggles of their servants, he knew he was right. Their brown-haired servant comes along to serve them wine, "Correct Emma?" she nods politely.</p><p>"It does not change my mind that your writing will reach its inevitable doom."</p><p>He didn't mind <em>curses</em> and <em>critics</em> against his works, but with the crude manner his brother portrays it as if it was Satan's bible, his appetite turned sour. He didn't crave food anymore.</p><p>He made sure the leftovers were still edible to feed to a stray dog, his tone cold and stingy, "Think what you want. But literature is much more <em>valuable </em>than your poisonous currency of greed."</p><p>He left the dinner table angrily, he didn't dare look back.</p><p>Maybe staying in the academy was way better than spending his days of torture inside the palace.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Edward tossed and turned around his bed that night.</p><p>Perhaps it was better that he wasn't able to read in the first place. That the words he saw back then felt like Egyptian hieroglyphics that meant rubbish. But now, with the new information that his soulmate is an up-and-coming author, who writes poems about romance and love, what are the odds that Bretton Yang will fall for him too?</p><p><em>A man of finesse and literacy</em>, the more Edward thinks about laying in bed with each other's arms, doing actions that couples would do together, grazing by the fields freely, or loving nature and staring at the distance, the more he starts to imagine such scenarios that he knows even an author themself can gawk at.</p><p>He lays on the soft mattress, suddenly words started appearing on his left wrist.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My dearly beloved, are you awake at this ungodly hour?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope I'm right there beside you to lull you into a deep and peaceful slumber. Perhaps I can calm you down with my hand combing over your strands, will it please you that I want to leave kisses on your tender knuckles too?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My, it has been a while since I wrote to you. I guess it has been months, I hope you are doing well. Sadly, I need to indulge in my studies, become a professor at Milram Academy. And maybe I have met you somewhere before, perhaps in the Academy, perhaps in the busy market, but fate isn't in favor of us my love.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Will you write back to me? For once? Please?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The words engraved in his wrists up to his arms did not lure him to take a restful sleep. It haunted him, tore his sanity to shreds, placed his heart on a stake, tortured his mind.</p><p>Olaf heard his whimpers, harsh sniffles accompanied by the gentle steady breeze of the midnight wind. A dissonance, he can't help but feel bad for Edward.</p><p>Was it acceptable to love another man?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>(Lack of certainty, filled with despair, dear Cupid, are your bows strong enough for repair? If so, a swift punch in the rut, a quick pierce through the mind, any antidote from your hands will surely help a weeping heart.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Gods like you don't actually exist. Right?)</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Your Poems and Literacy, Eloquence in Misery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>it has been years since he's published his own book, while he strolls down the market he spots the same location he used to teach people reading and writing. he sees a man with soft black locks swaying around the area playing his violin gracefully.</p><p>whether this was God hinting at him, he hoped that the words he wrote will be the same in his wrist.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Advance warning, this is a hefty chapter so grab yourself something to drink because this is gonna take a while to read. the last few paragraphs are rewarding trust me. :3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The raven firmament casts a looming shadow over the hills, there were no stars to light up the sky but rather a group of grey clouds, swirled with the frightening possibility of a vicious predator hunting for prey with the freezing gust, he proceeds to hike on the grass with his steady leather boots and his courage nowhere to be found. He grasps on the pail instead.</p><p>After a brisk trip to the river, taking every amount of water he can get, Edward wasted no time in preparing his boots for return.</p><p>He sees the shop in his blurry line of vision, the grip to the wooden container has been carved with crescent shapes from his long unkempt nails, anxiety, and agitation working hand in hand to keep his heart pumping furiously. It was night. And it was <em>goddamn</em> scary outside. Robbers, criminals, wolves, there has been a name floating around the city called <em>"Jack the Ripper" </em>who's prying on innocent commoners. Edward had to be careful.</p><p>Warily, he carries the two pails, juggling and balancing both of them. As he struggles his way towards the shop residing at the end of the market line, he almost dropped the containers on the cobblestone floor.</p><p>"Get off me dickhead!" He sees Olaf wrestle with a shadowy figure, undetermined to see who the perpetrator is, the only thing his eyes were able to see was the shiny piece of silver glistening through the night. A bloody knife. "Fuckin' meater!"</p><p>But before he was able to prepare for combat, the crimson color that shines together with silver almost made him faint. Edward quickly dropped the pails to the ground in slow-motion, he lunged forward to the murderer in his black coat. The lack of lighting in the market made it more difficult to see the man behind the black fabric.</p><p>Flabbergasted, he punched the perpetrator away from Olaf. Kicking his shins, landing another powerful kick in the gut. A headbutt. Then another punch and he was quick to run away.</p><p>Edward turned around to focus on the bleeding luthier on the floor. Slow and painful, Olaf pulls out the knife inside him. Some of his tissues stuck in the murder weapon. The creator of such an instrument, his delicate hands that focuses on meticulous attention now covered in unwanted bodily fluids.</p><p>"Olaf, stay with me please . . ." Edward carries him from outside the shop and into the lobby, laying his body in sheets of fabric and linen. White as wax tainted with scarlet. Olaf groans with the immense pains he feels in his stomach. The wanker cut deep, deep enough for him to feel.</p><p>This felt way different to chopping up spruce wood, repairing the bow for multiple times, accidentally burning the horsehair and burning his fingers too, he can feel himself bleed. Slowly letting his life drift away.</p><p>Edward comes back with all sorts of ointment he could find in the shop, leeches will do no good they will kill Olaf before he can recover. Placing the cottony fabric and dabbing it in the senior's stomach, he can't let go of Olaf just yet. He doesn't want him to slowly fade away just like his family did.</p><p>
  <em>Shivering in the cold rain, eaten by rodents, death by the plague.</em>
</p><p>With a groan and little to no voice left he was able to mutter, "That'll do no good."</p><p>Still, Edward tries a little ointment, some disinfectant, maybe water in too. "No good!? Olaf I can't let you die like this!" Though irritated, his touch was gentler than his current emotions surging through, "Moments ago I was gathering up buckets of water and you're out here getting murdered by God knows what!"</p><p>He looks up above the ceiling covered in spiderwebs that took shelter in their humble little shop, "Just let it be Ed. It can't be helped. Some wanker stabs me to steal another violin. It is what it is. Your old man is dying." He weakly swats Edward's desperate tries in healing him.</p><p>Olaf can feel his life flash before his eyes, how he met his soulmate but passed before him, how he was once a successful soloist but was beaten by other talented virtuosos, so he resorted his love in violin and music into creating the instrument itself, then he remembers the child-like wonder in Edward's eyes when he first saw the instrument in the flesh. At first, he thought it was another beggar trying to steal his violins but lo and behold it was a teen wanting to know everything about it.</p><p>From playing the violin, creating the violin, what goes behind the magical mysteries behind such a delicate instrument. And before he knew it, it was like taking care of a <em>son</em> he never had. How he wished his soulmate was alive, they would surely look like a happy family. Surrounded by beautiful music.</p><p>But alas, his time has come. He imagined himself growing with the rest of the town or even the small forest from their backyard. Together with the leaves, growing dead and crispy while his hair transitions to a grey color, laying on his death bed securing his violins to a case and dying with his creations peacefully but this was definitely uncalled for.</p><p>His heart is pumping <em>slowly</em> . . . Similar to Mahler's symphonies. Fleeting, drifting, away with the wind, and into the void.</p><p>"I hope you live long and well Edward," he peers over the young adult beside him, kneeling into the floor, his tears staining together with the bloody fabrics, "Oh good grief do not weep for me!"</p><p>Edward wipes the beads of tears that easily flowed from his eyes, "How am I supposed to stop myself. You raised me all these years. The least thing I could do was to heal you, here I am failing."</p><p>Olaf chuckled, <em>like a son he never had. </em>"That's the reason you're a luthier and not a doctor."</p><p>The young adult sniffles, broken and weary, "I'd prefer creating violins than become a doctor. I always see myself doing these with you for years to come," he paused for a moment fiddling with the fabric, "I always planned to have our shop share our names together. Edward and Olaf's."</p><p>Shaking, he grips on Edward's hands. His palms were growing cold, while Edward's was full of life, full of warmth. "Nevermind that, have the shop to yourself. If possible, I want our violins to reach into Pasinthe . . . Talented violinists, virtuoso, perhaps even give them for free. I-I want them to have a feel in our handicrafts Edward, can you do that?"</p><p>The steady streams of tears fell from his eyes and into the dying man's body, "Bury me in peace, I don't mind if it's in the forest. In the backyard, surround me in spruce wood."</p><p>"My, a shop with the both of our names doesn't sound bad, now that I think about it," his eyes fluttering softly, "I have seen you grow, Edward. Live well, continue studying reading and writing."</p><p>Edward nods, that he can do.</p><p>"Continue creating violins, Edward . . ."</p><p>And as Olaf drifts into a restful sleep, he cannot feel his eyes any longer, tears welled up, far more water than the two buckets he held earlier. It's not very often that he lets his emotion get in the way of living, he has no choice but to work, ignore the hunger and the pain he feels inside.</p><p>Tonight was not the night for restrictions, he weeps, he seizes and holds Olaf's hands until he feels his heartbeat vanish, left with numbness. Revenge was not a priority, but choking the life out of the perpetrator sounded like a good idea. He grabs the knife, realizes it was not a common cheap market knife.</p><p>Silver. Real Silver. With expensive gold accents and the wood handle covered in a clear varnish<em>.</em></p><p>For now, he'll mourn. For now, he'll grief. But years later, he will hunt.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Are daisies enough for a funeral?</p><p>It was just him, the kind fruits lady, and the chirpy bookkeeper Lady Ada.</p><p>While most commoner's corpses will end up on the ocean or buried on the ground, Edward resorted his anger in building Olaf a proper coffin instead.</p><p>He offered daisies on Olaf's coffin, his body now at peace. He wanted to eat the flowers. Taste the sweet and bitter nectar on it. So that he can no longer feel sadness in his system anymore. To let him forget his delirium, ease his melancholy for a quick momentary bliss.</p><p>The three of them parted ways, Edward requested Lady Ada for some manuscripts of violin pieces, for him to play them.</p><p>She obliged, wanting to leave him to grieve in peace.</p><p>He continued making and playing the violin (though he wasn't as good as Olaf, he practiced) and he continued attending the class of reading and writing, <em>but sadly</em>, it wasn't the same nobleman that had an obvious adoration in teaching, rather it was one of his colleague that taught now.</p><p>He grasps on his leather-bound book, a bit down that Professor Bretton Yang wasn't there, what a shame.</p><p>"Sorry ladies and gents, but Professor Yang is studying masterals now. By the time he gets back, he'll teach you more things. For now, I'm the one in charge!"</p><p>It's not that he didn't like this cheery blonde who's ready to chat you about his afternoon trips to the ocean, no, not at all. He's teaching for the sake of teaching. No hidden agendas, nor passion to drive him further to improve his students. It felt lackluster.</p><p>Still, he kept on living, without Olaf to mentor him, without his soulmate who writes him his worries and doubts about the past and the frightening future.</p><p>He kept on studying literature until he felt comfortable reading Professor Yang's books and other authors as well. He kept on studying the violin until his instrument starts to bleed out his pain and grieving into swaying melodies just barely passing through the air.</p><p>He kept on living alone.</p><p>Huddled in his shop, rarely going outside to grab some food to eat, instruments to sell, books to continue reading.</p><p>The business wasn't really booming until other royalties started commissioning him for custom made violins, different bows, some wanted personalized violin cases, others wanted an engravement inside the violin with the family's surname, honoring his name together with theirs. One time he was asked a peculiar request to add jewelry in the violin, 24-carat gold that costs thousands of pounds, that one he politely <em>declined.</em></p><p>Edward saw Professor Yang's books again, it was very in demand. Everyone who knew how to read has their noses inched up to the inked pages. Of course, he bought one himself too.</p><p>Though he wasn't very keen on the emotion love, for he was sure his affection will surely balance grief. It's almost as if everyone he loved left him for good, left him in this universe, and into the afterlife.</p><p>So when he went up to Lady Ada's countertop with the best seller piece of literature, the clerk was shocked.</p><p>"I don't see you like the romantic type of lad, <em>oh</em>, I didn't mean to offend you mate!" She gives him the change and with interest, she asks, "Say do you believe in soulmates?"</p><p>"Love is lonely and painful." He grasps on the book with force, it was clear that he's been through too much ever since Olaf's funeral. "If there was such a thing as soulmates I don't believe it. People are just going to suffer. Plus, I prefer music over novels anyway."</p><p>A shudder, needles prickling her pale skin, lady Ada was taken aback by the man's insight. He was a man of torture and a dark past, surely his mate may make him think otherwise.</p><p>"The world isn't so bad Ed." She punches on his shoulder playfully and hands him another book by the same romantic author, "Come on loosen up will 'ya? This one particular book is on me. Read it, get lost in it. For once, believe that love is actually real."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>For once believe that love is actually real.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Edward was so lost in the times of the day he got confused about whether the sun was for the night and the moon was for mornings.</p><p>He's curious . . . What is Bretton doing this cursed times?</p><p>He wanted to pull himself back from the temptation of writing back to his soulmate who's Milram's best author.</p><p>Edward just wants to have someone beside him who won't disappear as the rest of his family did.</p><p>He saved up some of the ivory black ink Bretton gave them in the market years ago, together with the quilt, though old and dusty it was still functioning.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hello, I am not sure if you are awake.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Honestly, I thank you for helping me read and write, or else I wouldn't understand a thing about your works and your messages that you write for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm sure you are asleep anyways, I wish you the best of luck for continuing your studies.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And I want you to remind yourself of the impact you give us commoners. Reading and writing became normal, everyone knows when other merchants will tease us for being fools. And because of you it rarely happens. </em>
  <em>It feels like some sort of power that you infested on us</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>Edward . . . </em>What are you thinking!?</p><p>His mind snapped back into reality, no, no he cannot communicate with him. No, it's not like Bretton will actually see it.</p><p>He washed the ink away with water, scrubbing with other ointments. The ink removes from his skin slowly.</p><p>Although he did want to talk to his destined lover, what are the chances that he will fall for him too? A man like him, a commoner, above all.</p><p>So he continued disassociating himself from the very person that can satisfy him.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Edward Chen, Journal Entry 1</b><br/>
<span class="u">08.34.1856</span>
</p><p>I hope I spelled journal right. Maybe I should buy another dictionary from Lady Ada so my words look, wright.</p><p>I bought some bread today, some good fruits too. Busking in the market felt wonderful. Performing felt rewarding.</p><p>To this day, I still wonder where Bretton Yang is. I wasn't sure if it was him that saw me. If it was him, then, he's changed.</p><p>Back then his hair was a lot shorter, polished, and cleaned. Now like a wise man, his glasses were a bit bigger, his eyes have grown with age, his hair was longer too.</p><p>If it wasn't him, then that's a shame.</p><p>Journal, I'm maybe . . . Reluctant? Is that the word? I'm maybe reluctant for romance, but that's because we are both men.</p><p>What would other people think of us if we walk in the markets with our hands together?</p><p>What an unfair life.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Filled with dread and nausea from yesterday's evening of champagnes and drunken people he gulps on his glass of water to keep himself focused.</p><p>His mother was opting to take care of meeting his soulmate, hence the whole useless party last night. He ended up <em>boring</em> himself to death, it wasn't that the lady was unpleasant no, she was nice, petite but she's a stuck-up little brat when one of their servants accidentally spilled a little amount of liquor on her.</p><p>"That's my gown you scum!" she grabs ahold of her clothing tightly, "My clothing has more value than you, peasant." she returns her attention back to Bretton who had a scowl on his face.</p><p>"M'lady, that was rude. I suggest you apologize to her," he says calmly, their servant has been serving the family all her life and she's bloody good at it, the last thing he wanted to happen was a distasteful insult from a snobby aristocrat. Thank god his poems weren't wasted on bimbos like her.</p><p>He sighs heavily, he didn't want to remember that anymore. Plus, he's got an awful load of paperwork to do.</p><p>Professor Yang quickly proofreads some of his student's prompts and attempts, handwritten all splayed out below for him to annihilate. Analyzing every single word.</p><p>He crosses out if he sees any grammatical error that nags him.</p><p>His concentration was diverted when someone knocked on his office, he replied with, <em>"Come in"</em>, to let whomever the visitor inside.</p><p>"Professor, quite a while since we've talked eh?" Stood in front of his table, alumni of the Academy.</p><p><em>Ruth Williams</em>, blonde, blue eyes, tall, stupidly rich. A nobleman with effortless grace in him, the very definition of <em>royalty</em>. He carefully sat down at the chairs provided in the room, the professor batting an eye for a while before putting his paperwork down and paying attention to his visitor.</p><p>"What brings a gentleman like you here?" He smiled politely and the young man chuckles in reply.</p><p>"Gentleman? I'd rather say you're <em>gentler</em> than I am eh?"</p><p>"Nonsense, you have met your soulmate already. Should there be a gentleman from the two of us, certainly it must be you. How is Clara by the way?"</p><p>Ruth shuffled in his seat, the excitement playing on his eyes before dropping the good news, "Clara is splendid to be with Professor. She's thoughtful, caring, everything about her is perfect, she's too perfect for me. I hope that I am perfect for her as well."</p><p>"You sound domestic already, I heard from your colleagues that she's carrying a child?"</p><p>"Most certainly Professor. I'm glad to be the father of a nurturing lady like her. But enough about me, I did not come here to brag about myself."</p><p>The professor shrugged his shoulders and smiled, "Very well."</p><p>"I hoped a little visit wouldn't hinder your work, some people had told me you have been <em>sulking </em>or rather been quite <em>lonely</em>. . . Is that right professor?"</p><p>"Not quite, but certainly not wrong either," he pushed his round glasses to the bridge of his nose, organizing the paper works. "My dearly beloved is nowhere near meeting me, and I haven't even met them."</p><p>"Ludicrous is it not? Why don't we have a walk in the city? The pier, the markets, have a quick lunch if you fancy?" Ruth propped his elbow suggesting adventure for both of them. The professor had no choice.</p><p>"That sounds lovely. Some tea and lunch would be exquisite, but I'm not going to let you pay for such expenses. Leave it to me."</p><p>Ruth shook his hand in disbelief, "Nonsense! I'll be glad to have you as my company, expenses are not a worry. Shall we go? The cab is waiting for us outside."</p><p>"Alright, <em>ladies first.</em>" To which they laughed together as they left the professor's office. Still, the mentor knows all too well that if ever the time is right, and his soulmate is near him, his small pocket journal stuck in his pocket, a nib and ink to accompany it with.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The two men spoke as their driver kept them safe inside the Hansom cab, it was a vehicle fitting for two people, two gentlemen if you may. Ladies and their big frilly gowns would not fit inside here. As they converse, the air of fresh trees shifted completely to the smell of the ocean breeze and a faint scent of oil and engines.</p><p>
  <em>Just like years ago . . .</em>
</p><p>The city, for the commoners, still a fascinating place if you ask the professor. He has never looked down upon commoners no, the Academy taught him such.</p><p>Discovering hidden potentials behind the minds of common people is astounding, he's had plenty of students who are now as successful as he is, dominating other cities than Milram.</p><p>Some of them working as authors of science and mathematics in <em>North Lotham,</em> or the capital of arts and music like <em>South Pasinthe</em>, while some became philosophers in the <em>West Esthor</em>. While he, continued his journey in Milram now chatting with his student.</p><p>The cab came to a stop in front of the marketplace. The two men got down to the vehicle, the professor offering a couple of pounds to the driver but Ruth quickly stopped him,</p><p>"There's no need to pay him, professor."</p><p>"No Ruth, I insist." Still, he reached for the money to the old driver who's smiling at him with gratitude. It was plenty, and for a man like him, this kind of money is enough for his family to afford a delicious meal.</p><p>They made their way to the marketplace, a mix of commoners and royalties. Looking for food, looking for items, and perhaps <em>looking for their soulmates</em>. Professor Yang observed the crowd, the chatters, the loud merchants, people all around.</p><p>Both of them weren't going anywhere, just visiting stalls and shops that might catch their interest. As they walk in the marketplace, the professor pays a visit to his favorite local bookstore. Apart from liking the store, he finds himself rather drawn to the owner.</p><p>He enters the shop and the bell chimes, there were only a few customers around, some of them recognized his round glasses and his silk top hat.</p><p>But he made his way straight down to the counter, a beautiful lady whose nose stuck to a book.</p><p>"Lady Ada, the supplier of books." His deep voice surprised the lady in the counter, her book comically shutting down when she flinches.</p><p>"My good sir, a prankster you are! It's a pleasure to have you here! But my, I'm not certain if I could keep on opening this shop." Ada slides the emerald hard bounded book to the side, her face almost mourning, the bright oranges from the oil lamps reflects on her sad green eyes.</p><p>"And why should the reason be?"</p><p>"I cannot keep up with the new books produced in other places like Lotham. The only way to get them is through ship, by the time the copies are here they are probably soaked."</p><p>"Ada, ought you never hear about the railway? I can take your books by train."</p><p>"No, I have never heard of them. The city of Milram is expanding and one may feel left out by sudden advancements." The lady lets out an exasperated sigh, as their conversation drones on Ruth from the marketplace came back to fetch the Professor.</p><p>"Shall we go?" Ruth asks.</p><p>"Just a moment." He turns back to Lady Ada.</p><p>"Should you need copies I will be happy to oblige and assist you, after all, most of my students come to you for resources do they not?" They share a smile, understood that the students in the Academy are, <em>intense.</em></p><p>"Exactly, pupils are increasing fast. And--oh! Before you leave, I have quite the request, Professor Yang."</p><p>"Alright, go on . . ."</p><p>"If you have any manuscripts of composers on the violin, will you care to send copies of it?"</p><p>"I'll see what I can do."</p><p>"Thank you, Professor, a certain musician was looking for them. Said that they <em>prefer</em> music over your novels---"</p><p>"Did they really?" That was a <em>first</em>. Even Ruth's attention caught Ada's words.</p><p>"He's an exceptional violinist don't get me wrong! But <em>good Lord almighty,</em> he is one stubborn man."</p><p>"Very well then, I hope to see your business bloom, if I have any information about the books, expect a letter." He nodded, bidding farewell to the woman running the small shop.</p><p>They got outside and the strong smell of the ocean and oil hit his nostrils again.</p><p>"Shall we head out for lunch here?" The professor asks Ruth.</p><p>"I prefer lunch at the palace, the food here can be incredibly dirty."</p><p>"Dirty? Ruth, take a look around you there's bountiful fruits and meat here!" As the professor gets near a stall of food, his attention was snatched when he hears a melody . . .</p><p>It was light, elegant, even meters away from the stall he can sense the set of familiar notes.</p><p>Beethoven Spring Sonata, in its full <em>bloom</em>, bouncing the notes like feathers in the wind. He made his way to a small crowd watching his performance.</p><p>It hit him a sudden wave of nostalgia. Ah, this was the same spot he used to teach people.</p><p>Royalties and commoners alike, gathered by a virtuoso and his instrument. A tall lad with his black frock coat, pristine white top, his high waisted jeans, and black boots. His black hair turns golden brown when hit by the sun, he looks dazzling with the seas behind him.</p><p>
  <em>(Cupid is busy, Eros and Amor seem to accompany you now. Different Gods from different mythologies yet they seem to be in unison about this. A switch, a lock, allure. Angels in a hymn, flowers in spring, pristine and pure.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(Bretton, is your mind gearing up? Do you remember anything? Anything at all?)</em>
</p><p>And for an unexplainable reason, there's a gravitational pull towards the man, like his stomach realigned and the lady in the shop that he once fancied long forgotten. For the man in front of him was music himself, waltzing, and swaying along with the sounds he creates.</p><p>His brows furrowed, eyes close shut, body moving without a care in the world.</p><p>The Professor, a wise man, and yet destiny decides to challenge him to a game of deception, he's feeling jittery, excited even, for the man in front of him bewitched his heart at first glance. No, not at first glance, he's seen him somewhere before, he is certain.</p><p>It was a different kind of emotion when he's had feelings for women, but for men, it's odd, it's strange yet he feels thrilled to be near him.</p><p>If he writes on his wrist, will the words appear?</p><p>"Professor! You have seemed to watch the musician play, quite a genius eh?" Ruth casually says but was taken aback when he noticed the professor's calm facade break.</p><p>"Professor? What's wrong?"</p><p>"Nothing of importance . . . So! Lunch?" Ruth nodded furiously, hungry, and needy of food. The two noblemen exit the crowd of people.</p><p>But Professor Yang, kept on sneaking glances towards the musician. Hoping to see if the musician will catch his drift and notice him.</p><p>
  <em>(And sadly, as the crowd dispersed, the musician did notice him. But he didn't need to know that.)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My love, my dearly beloved.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm writing on my wrist to tell you that perhaps, I have seen you somewhere in Milram. I am a writer myself, yet why do I feel nervous writing for you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When I think about you why do my words start to stutter? My love, I want to meet you. To feel your tender hands la</em>
  <em>ced upon me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm writing on my other arm now, and it looks gibberish and I apologize for that. But love, tell me, that you exist. That you're living, for every single day that I am breathing, I will not hesitate to write for you. In my wrist, in my palms, in my novels, and in my heart.</em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The moonlight gleams upon his body, the Professor ravaged from his consensus, he cannot fall asleep. All he could think about is the dreadful possibility that his soulmate is a man.</p><p>But, before he can jump into nonsense logic, he should test it, and see if his theory is correct.</p><p>Even so, the idea haunted him, yes, but the more he thinks about the violinist his mind only focuses on him, nobody but him.</p><p>It was confusing to fall for a man like him, it bewildered him more than anything.</p><p>Arms covered in ivory black ink, his dreams comprise of his lover.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The first thing Brett sees when he opens his eyes was the ink. Faded, opaque in his skin. Like his blood absorbed every word, but it felt useless because he got no response back.</p><p>However, after years of waiting, finally, in striking black ink, his palms were engraved,<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yes, my love. I do exist, I breathe I live. I know who you are, so I do my best to avoid you because if you discover me, it would be best that I vanish in this universe.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You do not love me, you will wish that you hadn't. And I wish I was never conceived.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
That doesn't seem right, why would they think of that?</p><p>Bretton wrote back.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Let me love you, I've been craving for your existence all my life. So, even if I regret knowing you, or wishing I hadn't, darling, I would rather have my heart broken by you than any other royal or commoner.</em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He wiped the forming tears in his eyes, he's got a class to teach, how informal for him to weep in front of his class? Brett Yang is a man, he can handle this.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The professor ventured his way to the small bookstore in the city. His pupil from South Pasinthe was more than happy to give him copies of manuscripts of pieces from different composers. Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and many more.</p><p>Printing processes are way easier and a lot faster with the help of a printing press and pieces of machinery. Making the overwhelming scent of oil a lot stronger.</p><p>Before the professor can leave the shop, he asks Lady Ada, "May I ask who's requesting these music sheets?"</p><p>"Should you meet him? I worry that if you start talking to him the both of you might fight."</p><p>"Care to enlighten me?"</p><p>Lady Ada inhales before speaking, "He doesn't believe in love. He doesn't believe in your novels and books. He doesn't believe in soulmates, the very definition of love is futile to him."</p><p>Without any thought, words spoke automatically, "May I know his name to change his mind on the matter?"</p><p>Lady Ada raises a brow, "Pardon?"</p><p>"His name, to change his mind on the matter." He spoke with confidence.</p><p>"You mean to tell me that you are going to love him to change his mind?" She chuckles mischievously.</p><p>
  <em>Blimey, that sounded wrong.</em>
</p><p>"For whatever you are thinking, I want you to stop. Rather, I might help in finding a woman that can love him."</p><p>"To find a lady to help him or to find a lady you'll woo with?"</p><p>"I think you are aware that I can do both." He winked a furious blush of red on Lady Ada's cheeks.</p><p>"His name is Edward Chen. He has a little shop for violins, a luthier if I'm not mistaken. I'm certain that it's located at the end of the marketplace."</p><p>"Very well Ada, your company has been splendid. Take care."</p><p> </p><p>Brett wrote in his palms,<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Are you a violinist? If so, I have delivered sheets of music you might be interested in. Perhaps you can play it for a crowd, or practice the pieces alone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But love, to tell you the truth, I want to see you play these pieces for me.</em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>(Cupid doesn't want your puppy love towards a woman.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(Bretton, when will you start to pay attention to what matters most?)</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>After a long day of teaching at the Academy, his previous students decided to set up a dinner for all of them. Gathering from other parts of the land and reuniting at Ruth's palace for a massive feast for writers like them.</p><p>It was a great opportunity to get his mind off of his soulmate. Plus, he could see all of his students at one table, like a family. Not related by blood, but related in words of eloquence.</p><p>The group happily indulged in the food and the sweet liquor they were offered with. The professor strayed away from alcohol, he's got things to work on in the weekend.</p><p>The meat in a perfect sear, crispy skin with blanched greens on the side. It was a feast, but his mind is nowhere near the grandiose party. Ruth noticed his quietness.</p><p>"What seems to be the problem professor? Cold greens? I could take care of that for you---"</p><p>"When did you know that Clara was the one?"</p><p>"Oh, as my soulmate?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Well, I was finishing my first novel, and I forgot to erase the words written in my arms. Then my parents gathered a little celebration for my successful trip to North Lotham, that's when I knew, when I kissed her hands, I saw the same words scribbled in her, before she even noticed it."</p><p>Professor Yang nodded, taking in every bit of information that might help him.</p><p>"May I ask the reason behind such question Professor?"</p><p>Can he tell Ruth? A student? A pupil he taught? Among all these noble people, should he be the one to know a piece of controversial information?</p><p>"Shall we speak in private?"</p><p>"We shall." Two men excused themselves from the group, they exit the dining room.</p><p>They went to Ruth's office that no servant nor maid ever considered to frolic around.</p><p>He breathed heavily before admitting his secret to Ruth, "I have been pondering ever since we went to the city. I think---I think my soulmate is a <em>man</em>."</p><p>Professor Yang expected laughter, or a chuckle, or even a face of disgust but when he looked back at Ruth, simply, he was smiling.</p><p>"And that's perfectly fine Professor Yang."</p><p>"What do you mean? A man to love another man is the same as making love to a filthy fish! It's illogical! It's sinful! And it's . . . <em>revolting</em> . . . " his voice faltering by the last few words.</p><p>"Shall I judge you based on your preferences?" Ruth shifts in his seat, "I have known you for years Professor, you are wise, cunning even, and your intellect is not up to par with mine. But I know that a soulmate is still a soulmate regardless of their gender."</p><p>"Do you not find this disturbing Ruth!? This is immoral, degrading! What if--what if the public knew that my partner is a man, what will they think of me?"</p><p>"For such a system that entails a powerful emotion, love . . ." Ruth rubbing his temples, "Don't you think the system requires revision?"</p><p>"Revision for what? For men loving men?"</p><p>"I do not want to sound crude, but what will your soulmate think if they heard you right here at this very moment?"</p><p>He rubbed his eyes in frustration, his round glasses loosening around the bridge of his nose.</p><p>"Why are you <em>unfazed</em> by this?"</p><p>"I have peers that are just as torn as you are Professor." Ruth rubbed his shoulders, a friendly action of comfort.</p><p>"You are the romantic writer between the two of us. You are the one who wrote how to love, no matter what the circumstances may be, or if fate decides to be against your will, <em>you taught the land of Milram with your words how to love</em>. So why are you fighting against your messages? Why the sudden betrayal?"</p><p>He did not mean to raise his voice, but with the anger bubbling inside him, he cannot control himself any longer.</p><p>"Because Ruth, I am in <em>misery!</em> I do not know what is right anymore! I . . . I want to meet him. I want to see him, whoever he may be. I've been longing of his presence for years to come and now, he's responded. And I . . . I want <em>more</em>."</p><p>A heavy sigh escaped Ruth's lips.</p><p>"There's a petition proposed by the Aristocrats to the Queen. If you can show the proof that you're bound as soulmates to the authorities no matter what gender you may be, male to male, female to female, or male to female then you are both meant to be. Legal, to be together."</p><p>Professor Yang looked up to the blonde sitting at the stool in front of him, "Why have I never heard of such a rule?"</p><p>Ruth's lips pressed to a thin line, crossing his arms, his eyes saddened.</p><p>"Because it is only applicable in South Pasinthe."</p><p>South Pasinthe, the capital of arts and music. Hundreds of miles away from Milram.</p><p>Magically in black ink in his palms again, his soulmate wrote back,<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Yes, I play the violin.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I do not want to play for you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>That made his heart shatter more than the heartbreaks he experienced from his past lovers.</p><p>
  <em>(Oh, dear the irony. The mentor of love, now heartbroken. For he, a teacher of the said emotion, does not have an elixir for heartbreaks.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(But one shall remember, love is sweeter the longer you suffer.)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Professor Yang wandered around the marketplace, he wasn't sure if his theory was correct. Nor, was he confident if the same violinist he saw on the pier was the same man in the shop.</p><p>He asked plenty of people first, asking them if there's any other luthier or violinist around. The answers were all the same, there's only one in Milram.</p><p>So he must be the one.</p><p>Brett wrote in his palms ahead of time, with a simple sentence.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Je vous ai trouvè</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His boots striding on the hard granite, stopping by a small shop full of beautiful violins. Displayed by the clear windows, silky green satin curtains complementing the deep hue of the violins. Brown, hazel, an arrangement of sorts.</p><p>His heart skipped a beat when he saw the same violinist who busked at the pier. A wave of embarrassment came over the professor, for he did not know much about music. He did find classical music endearing, but that's about it.</p><p>He stepped inside the shop, marveling at the different violins, some were unfinished, some glimmering like a bar of gold. Every violin, made with precision.</p><p>"Good day sir, may I help you?" Said the luthier.</p><p>"I'm quite alright, thank you . . ." The moment they made eye contact, the professor knew he was <em>doomed.</em></p><p>They recognized each other. Similar to a robber and a cop, or a cat to a mouse. Chasing and chasing until <em>finally</em> meeting, <em>deja vu.</em></p><p>5 years before . . . At the market, right next to the kind lady that sells fruits . . . He was the one who told him that love was painful and lonely. Like Bretton, both of them were young and naive, baby-faced, their eyes twinkling with hidden innocence behind their eyes or their small stature.</p><p>Yet they both grew wise, in separate ways, drifting apart but ended up meeting each other again.</p><p>
  <em>Where have you been all my life?</em>
</p><p>"Professor, I hope to be polite, but you should exit this shop. I apologize, but I do not sell books."</p><p>"I did not come here for books." A saddened smile, his lips pressed in a thin line. His eyes meeting with the luthier's. "Say, do you believe in soulmates?"</p><p>"I don't. It annoys me."</p><p>Brett perked his eyebrows, "How so?"</p><p>"People desperately writing on their body just to speak to their soulmates. Quite the nuisance actually, but how would I know . . . Romance, love, all of it, it's all useless."</p><p>"So you're true to your words, you're the one who told me once that love is painful and lonely," he gave a smirk once the luthier's eyes perked up in curiosity, "I'm certain you have read my works?"</p><p>Edward scoffed, "Everyone in Milram has if you are not yet informed."</p><p>"Exactly, so why resist? On love? On romance? Have you never find your soulmate yet?"</p><p>"Professor, you must be lost. The marketplace is down the road---" his hands pointing outside. The white sleeve showing enough skin--<em>bingo.</em></p><p>But that didn't matter, the professor was sure. He is convinced.</p><p>Now with confidence, he rebutted, "Why are you avoiding me?"</p><p>Shocked, it took a mere second before the luthier could form a coherent answer, "Nothing of importance, but please, go away."</p><p>"Why should I?" Professor Yang took his hat off, "Why are you avoiding me? Edward Chen?"</p><p>The luthier's eyes widened, how can he know his name? His full name too?</p><p>"Are you---can you hear yourself, professor? You are speaking gibberish, for a man of literature like you, a contrast to your utterances."</p><p>"Then let these utterances speak of themselves. I say a question, should it demand a complicated answer? <em>My love</em>?"</p><p>
  <em>My love . . .</em>
</p><p>The words kept on ringing and ringing. The professor's deep timbre, rang like a bell and lingered like a melody.</p><p>The professor saw the luthier's palm when he pointed back to the marketplace.</p><p>The words in his palms matched Edward's.</p><p>Then, finally, the luthier caved in. "I am avoiding you---because we <em>cannot</em> be together."</p><p>Brett inched closer, and closer to where Edward is standing.</p><p>"Who said so? The Gods? The Queen? No one can judge us but ourselves, my love. For you, to limit our romance . . ." He gingerly laced his right hand to his, "Simply intolerable. You have been avoiding me for years. But let me tell you this, I will never stop<em> fighting</em> to look for you. Fate does seem to want us together."</p><p>"As much as I do want to, Professor can't you see? How wrong this is? We are both gentlemen, we cannot love each other . . ." Tears now forming in Edward's eyes, the color once chocolate now becoming faded.</p><p>"Edward, why are you stopping us from loving each other?" He placed his right hand tenderly on Ed's face.</p><p>"Because it is wrong, Professor Yang. I am a commoner, you are a royal. I am a luthier, you are a successful author. I am water, you are oil. We do not mix, we are not meant for each other."</p><p>Brett was practically inches away from Edward, his careful arms pinning him from the wall. In desperation and conviction he replied, "Edward, I have been searching for you all my life. I want to love you. Let me love you, please. I will do whatever it takes just to love you."</p><p>"Then why are we both men? Why does God hate us? Professor, I want to love you, but I can't. And you should know that." His voice suddenly growing louder.</p><p>"Just, just give me a chance . . . give me a month or two. I will make things work for the two of us."</p><p>"And let you suffer alone? I do not approve of that." He spoke back.</p><p>The professor argued, <em>"Then what must I do to love you!?"</em></p><p>And it was silent, their hearts fully ignited. Battling each other's flames, fighting for who is stronger. Shall they love each other, or stray away? A life knowing they exist but would rather be ceased to exist.</p><p>A life, loving other people but not their soulmate.</p><p>That thought alone scared Edward. He didn't like that idea, and if he had to be honest he has been lonely. Lonely and longing for anyone to come and stay in his life. People had always left him and never came back.</p><p>"Professor, I--I do not know . . ." Tears rolling back again in his eyes. His body collapsing, falling into Brett's arms.</p><p>Desperate, Brett still tries, "Will you love me? Even just for a while?" His hands lightly drawing circles on Edward's shoulder.</p><p>Edward shook his head. He looked back at Brett.</p><p>"May I love you? For all eternity?"</p><p>Brett smiles cheekily, "Is eternity enough for us?"</p><p>Sparks erupting as their lips touched. The fire of the oil lamp has died down. Still, they kissed each other in the dark. Gentle, and intimate. Brett's hands made its way to Edward's waist, pulling him closer and closer.</p><p>Their bodies warm, their kiss once intimate gradually turned longing and <em>lustful.</em> Tongues in a tango, hands rubbing bodies. They want more, they're hungry for more.</p><p>But alas, it was getting late. Robbers and criminals may lurk in the dark. And so they pulled away, strands of hair sticking out in different directions, the professor's tie loosened, the luthier's eyes in a daze.</p><p>Brett kissed Edward's tender knuckles, fingertips firm from practicing. He flipped his hand, connected his palm to his, there's the proof. <em>Je vous ai trouvé</em>, they are soulmates.</p><p>"Do you know what this means?"</p><p>"It's in French but I'm not certain for its meaning."</p><p>"Je vous ai trouvé . . ." A light peck in Edward's cheek, intertwining his hand, inches closer to each other, their breathing accelerated again.</p><p>
  <em>"I found you."</em>
</p><p>Brett smiled when he saw Edward's cheek flush, a pretty shade of crimson. He looks more beautiful when up close, unlike the time that he was rushing to catch a glimpse in the pier. This time he can marvel at his beauty for as long as he likes.</p><p>"Professor, I think, it's time for you to go back to the Academy. It's getting late."</p><p>Brett chuckled at his sudden meekness, "My, aren't you shy?"</p><p>"I am <em>not</em> shy!"</p><p>"Really? For you to submit unto my lips moments ago?" Teasingly rubbing his thumb to Edward's bottom lip, he looked away.</p><p>"Well . . . I--I suppose not . . . But that's because you surprised me."</p><p>"Then, I shall surprise you more often should I not?" He rests his head on Edward's shoulder, feeling the body heat from him.</p><p>"It's the dead of the night, Professor. You should go back now." Edward's voice was quiet now, shushed, like a secret for them to know.</p><p>"A farewell kiss if you may?"</p><p>They reconnected their lips, reuniting like old souls that met in a different universe, in a different timeline, or in a new world that is filled with uncertainty. But one thing is certain,</p><p>They are <em>soulmates.</em></p><p>They are<em> meant</em> for each other.</p><p>And there is still an ongoing debacle in Brett's mind, whether he shall or shall not love another man, but he knew his heart was screaming to go back to the luthier's shop and continue loving him.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fresh as the morning dew,</em><br/>
<em>Rich brown as Nature's Spruce,</em><br/>
<em>Your lips lighter than a feather,</em><br/>
<em>I wish to be with you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My darling dear, I hope to be near you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>With the constant workload in the Academy and the final semester that is about to be finished, he had no choice but to continue writing poems every morning to his soulmate. He cannot physically visit him at his shop, nor can Edward visit him at the Academy.</p><p>It would raise too many suspicions, and they didn't want that. To love another man was a crime just as heavy as a homicide. Add in the constant harassment and bullying from cops and officers.</p><p>But the Professor did not care. It doesn't matter if his last days on earth consist of being together with his soulmate. It doesn't matter if his carefully built reputation will crumble in a matter of seconds just for his sexual orientation.</p><p>He is not the law, he is not written in books to be followed. Why should the law limit the boundaries of love? At what cost?</p><p>In the meantime, their secrecy has become a norm for the two of them.</p><p>It feels like a code of some sort. That only two people can discover and read. The letters and the words hidden in his black tailcoat, none of the public will ever get to see.</p><p>He was able to squeeze in some vacant time that he can spend two nights with his lover.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Good morning my love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope to bring you presents that you might adore, I will be visiting you later in the day and will be spending two nights at your shop if possible. I hope to see you and hold you in my arms.</em><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>The professor files for a temporary leave in his schedule, his reason was that he needed to canvas for the items he might be using for his upcoming book.</p><p>But who was he kidding? He knows where to print his books, he knows his supplier of inks and paper, he knows these but he just wanted to see his dearly beloved, hence his reason.</p><p>Other professors didn't doubt him no, not really. Because in the end, they're more intrigued by his words and not the paper.</p><p>He packed his briefcase with enough clothes, supplements, toiletries, and pounds. He wanted to spoil his soulmate even for just two days.</p><p>Two days of a short trip to paradise, he was sure to lavish it.</p><p>The Academy's bell rang, the tolling sounds resonating. Signaling that it's 8 am already. Classes are bound to start.</p><p>He kept the briefcase underneath his desk, now, off to teaching classes.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>It was around noon that he visited the shop. Stood in front of it, he wasn't expecting a customer, a lady inside who was looking at the rows of violins.</p><p>He entered without any warning, the lady recognized his appearance, so he flashed a quick smile to her. Brunette, blue-eyed, her gown pleated and ornate, carrying a reticule in her hands.</p><p>"Professor Yang, I did not expect you to be here!" She sparks a conversation as soon as he stepped inside, <em>ah right</em>, typical flirtatious royalties.</p><p>"My lady, for a pretty face like yours I shall know her name," he politely responds, at the corner of his eye, Edward suddenly entered the room, glowering with jealousy.</p><p>
  <em>This is going to be interesting . . .</em>
</p><p>"Margaret, Professor Yang." She curtly bowed. As a sign of showing interest <em>(well not really)</em>, he reached for her dainty hands and kissed it, the same way he did for Edward.</p><p>The luthier cleared his throat, "M'lady, your custom-made violin is here." He carefully handed the instrument to her before scowling back at Brett.</p><p>
  <em>He's adorable when he's jealous . . .</em>
</p><p>The lady skillfully grips the bow as she plays the violin, playing a passage from Mozart violin concerto no. 3 in G Major.</p><p>Edward's facial expression was easily describable as stoic, no anger nor jealousy was evident in him. But Brett knew, he knew there's a raging storm inside.</p><p>Margaret's attempts at the violin was commendable, but he prefers Edward's playing over hers.</p><p>She raised the bow when her performance stopped, Brett clapped to show that he is impressed. Not really, but the lady tried.</p><p>"I'll take this. The bow is done exceptionally well, not too heavy, and easy to grip. What wood did you use for the violin?" She asked.</p><p>"Mainly Norway Spruce m'lady, it is the best wood for creating violins." She smiled at the details on the instrument.</p><p>She reached to her reticule and paid the amount that she promised, adding a couple more pounds to impress the Professor, acting like she is generous.</p><p>"Well, I should get going gentlemen. How about you Professor, care to join me for some tea?" A hint of seduction in her tone,<em> tea</em>, or something else.</p><p>"I've got some agenda here today but I appreciate the invite. Please carry on, I wish you safety m'lady." He said as she hopped on the cab and drifted as nothing had happened.</p><p>Just when the lady had disappeared, Brett heard a loud growl from Edward. Like a wild wolf that finally gets to devour his prey. His eyes never leaving Brett's.</p><p>
  <em>So this is how he acts when he's jealous . . .</em>
</p><p>"May you lead me to my room, love?" Brett tried to speak as gently as he could, but it was useless. Edward was still angry, scowling hard at him. Muttering words of vulgarity in discreet, but he heard it.</p><p>They entered the entirety of the house, from the front shop to the main room then upstairs with two rooms perfect for shelter. The occupied one was the Luthier's, considering it was locked.</p><p>Edward placed the briefcase at the end of the bed, "I apologize if it's not your <em>typical</em> bed from the palace."</p><p>"Does it matter?" A playful smirk, his hand grazing on Edward's, "My, my, you're like a wolf in rage when you're jealous."</p><p>"Why wouldn't I be!? That woman has her eyes all over you," he huffed, crossing his arms "Maybe she's the woman you want to be with, and not me."</p><p>Brett let out a hearty chuckle, he took off his top hat and coat placing it at the bedside table. He wrapped his arms behind Edward, "Is she the one that I write poems to? Well, I start to wonder who's reading them in the morning . . ." as soon as he mentioned about poems, Edward's cheeks flared up. He wriggled under Brett's embrace but failed to do so.</p><p>"Say, my love, do you even read them?" his head tilted to see his partner's gaze, there was an obvious height difference between the two of them, and that became an advantage for Edward. He turned around facing Brett, locking his hands to the other.</p><p>"I--I do, every morning. I always anticipate your writing." he stammered, Bretton kissed him softly in the lips, smiling as he did so.</p><p>"Do not be jealous of a random lady, I was trying to be polite."</p><p>"Polite is greeting them, you were teasing her. I can even smell her from you."</p><p>"It would be better if you erase her perfume with your lips . . . "</p><p>And that he can do.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>"Good morning."</em>
</p><p>Edward slowly opened his eyes, his soulmate huddled close to him. When he looked at himself and sniffled a little air to keep him grounded on earth it reminded him of the heated encounters they shared last night.</p><p>Hot kisses on his lower abdomen,</p><p>Light and airy pecks on their necks,</p><p>Tied to each other's tight grips.</p><p>It was sensual. He's never felt that way with a man before, his bare torso grazing on the Professor's milky white skin.</p><p>Bretton gives a slow kiss on Edward's lips, a <em>good</em> morning indeed. His slender hands soothing on places it can land upon, the curvature of his waist to his sculpted hips, or the broad neck meeting his toned shoulder.</p><p>The sun has barely gone up, lighting up soft rays by the curtains, each string of light reflecting their body as they lay half-naked under the linen sheets.</p><p>Bretton wanted to feel Edward under his hands again.</p><p>"You look so beautiful like this," he kissed his neck, "Fuck, I can't get enough of you."</p><p>Edward's eyes shot in surprise, "That's the first time I heard you curse."</p><p>He rested his head on Edward's shoulders, "Forgive me. You're prettier than any lady I've ever met." His hands going up to cup his lover's face, "I can't believe I wasted years without meeting you."</p><p>"Well, Professor English and cursing, convince me then," Edward shuffled in the bed causing a sound of small creaks of the bed frame. "Like an insecure little girl. Convince me."</p><p>Bretton saw the prettiest eyes that crinkled with joy and amusement. Forget that it's early morning, forget the sun and the gentle dewdrops by the grass, forget the sunflowers following the sunshine. Right in front of him, like constellations forming spontaneously, twinkling, shimmering and bright. Eyes glazed with love. Wrinkling the corners of his face in a frame, sometimes his eyes shutting softly, blinking slowly, another kiss. Light and gentle.</p><p>
  <em>Edward Chen, what are you doing to me?</em>
</p><p>"For you, my dearly beloved, anything." They parted slightly, Bretton grazed his hand again, electric yet soothing, his hands rest on his hips, "Let's start here."</p><p>"The slope of your hips, your curves though not obvious, is a delight to see and touch." His hands moving up to touch his arms, "Your arms. Firm, brute, yet the way you held me last night was far from strong--"</p><p>Bretton noticed the instant blush from his lover, <em>so he's embarrassed that I dominated him?</em></p><p>"Next please?"</p><p>"You're adorable when you're shy." He smirked with smug, "Your arms melted upon me the moment I <em>touched</em> you, how I had that magic on you I have no idea. But I love your arms embracing me to get closer, then, I know you want <em>more</em>. I know I'm doing well to give you bliss, and bliss you deserve." He continued to serenade him not with music, but with his words, never breaking eye contact, though extemporaneous and a bit flawed like his groggy and deep voice, he was sure, God, he was sure that he <em>means</em> every word.</p><p>His slender fingers laced through Edward's, "My, my, splendid fingers you have that even the Queen is jealous. I wanted to weave mine with yours ever since you told me that love is lonely and painful. Remember? It was years ago."</p><p>He grabbed Edward's hands close to him, "Five years to be exact."</p><p>" Hm . . . I wanted to hold your hand to let you know how love feels. I hope I'm doing that well." Rose petal lips kisses right on his hands that have been scarred with the past, with hard work, with history embedded per injury that healed with the help of time.</p><p>He lets go of Edward's hands and proceeds to trace his index fingers to his lover's shoulder, "Darling, you have no idea how much I love this part of yours." Pointing just where the neck and shoulder meet, pressing a firm kiss. Different than the kisses he planted on his soulmate earlier, this one was a bit more forceful, fervent, his lips just below Ed's ear, "Look how weak you become when I kiss you there."</p><p>If lust is a perfume, then Edward is drenched to the brim of arousal. Husky murmurs that continue to pamper him of appraisal and compliments. He felt like a saint, given with honor and reverence to his body that he never saw as something to glorify at.</p><p>Then, going up to his face, teasingly, in a dreadful sluggish manner. His thumb playing at Ed's bottom lip, "I'm in love with your lips. I could kiss you all day with these pairs of yours." To fuel the thick aroma between the two, Edward decided to lick his lips teasingly, "Stop that, or I will kiss you to death."</p><p>"Blimey, death sounds <em>exciting</em>."</p><p>He moved on to his forehead, pressing a chaste kiss, "A weird choice? Perhaps. I'm not taller than you, but I know kissing someone right here gives them a sense of security, comfort even, a promise, an oath. Maybe I'm speaking a bit too <em>soon</em>, but Edward if I have to be honest with you, as your fated partner, I wish to spend my life with you. Doesn't matter if the world will know, our love can be a secret for the two of us."</p><p>Edward remained silent, he didn't know what to think of that. He's happy and contented creating instruments in his shop, and he doesn't really like publicity and the general public gnawing at his existence. But a relationship of secrecy felt <em>restricting</em>.</p><p>Bretton saw the quick shift of his emotions, how his eyes littered with life turned monotone with disinterest and . . . Disappointment.</p><p>"Love? What's wrong?"</p><p>"It makes me sad that loving you has to become a secret. I know it sounds foolish of me, but I can't help but want to share to people that I met my fated partner, that I met you . . . I-I want to be married to you, uh, was that too much? Was I exaggerating?" He noticed the shock in Bretton's expression, then smiling quickly.</p><p>"Nothing, it's just, you just sound more romantic than me," he chuckled kissing his lips tenderly, pulling away to continue talking, "Maybe in a different universe we can love each other freely. But now, let me indulge myself in the comfort that you bring through your embraces."</p><p>"I give good hugs?"</p><p>"Really good hugs."</p><p>"Hmm . . ." Edward's hands toyed on the silky strands, sniffing a little, a hint of hibiscus and a sweet smell of honey.</p><p>Then Bretton pulled away, giving a playful peck on his nose, "Your nose, not much to say. Not very impressed since it gets in the way of our kissing--"</p><p>He smacked the author's arm jokingly, "Hey! You wanker."</p><p>"And the most important part about you," he leans on to kiss the creases near his eyes, caressing, gingerly and then pulling away again as if nothing had happen, his smile reoccurring when Edward opened his eyes, like stars that shined, "Your eyes. Your eyes, <em>my Lord</em>, especially now in the morning sun. If you have any idea how much those stunning hues of hazel and umber mix within your eyes, I'm sure you'll have the same thought as me when I say it's a galaxy full of speckles. Fermented with grace as you age, wrinkles sculpting the sides of your face, burgeoning magnificent beauty in you, Edward Chen, why do you make me want you? "</p><p>"I could ask the same thing for you. Is this why most ladies in town follow you around? With your sweet talks?"</p><p>"Maybe, I'm not very sure. Why would they matter now when I'm nestled here with you?"</p><p>The author had a fair point, and they continued to lay in a bed of their own distinctive scents. Petrichor and sugared hibiscus wafting in their shared spaces in immaculate chiffon, with shared whispers and promises left for them to hear, a few sleepy kisses here and there and it felt like heaven on Earth.</p><p>And maybe after that, they will share breakfast in bed with his favorite peach jam on toast together with tea and biscuits their chatters reminiscing their past will fill in the silent pauses as they take in the pastry between bites, or fry some meat and boil some starch to fill up Edward's appetite. Maybe in the evening, some warm cup of coffee will keep them both awake as they share their hopes and expectations for them to fulfill, both agreeing that South Pasinthe is their next country to visit.</p><p>One <em>little</em> step at a time, know each other and love not their bodies but their souls encased inside them, Cupid has granted his prayers, their love shall thrive.</p><p>Did I ever mention that authors have diaries too?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. I Cherish Thee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>a journal, a diary, personal, and important. above all, in a little book made from nature's young leaves lies his romantic fantasies and records about his dearly beloved.</p><p>how can a simple piece of item lead him to his very own demise?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is such a long chapter. you have been warned.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>No individual shall tarnish the holy name of the country.</b>
</p><p>
  <em>Shall one continuously perform actions, behavior, and manners that will taint the sanctity of Milram will face a lifelong sentence in prison or death.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Do not follow your brother.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Follow your father.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Be like your father.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Be rich, be wealthy, and be </em>
  <em>
    <b>powerful</b>
  </em>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>That was the dream, isn't it? To follow the giant footsteps his father embarked on the family name?</p><p>The Yangs. An empire established by selling lands, houses, properties. Sometimes, negotiating with hardworking middle classes, often kissing the asses of governors. Land for the Lady? Priced at thousands of pounds? Sold. Land for the governor? Oh, do not speak further! Sold.</p><p>Was he, Arthur Yang guilty of stealing lands off commoner? Perhaps.</p><p>But was he proud of his accomplishments in the industry? Absolutely.</p><p>Arthur Yang, <em>royalty</em>. Became a businessman fulfilling his family that built a legacy, in business, in power, and in the<em> government.</em></p><p>It was similar to walking on shards of liquor barefooted, one must be polite in their wording, one must be composed to appear stoic. One must remain calm and composed during a meeting, a gathering, remain a gentleman if possible.</p><p>He was taught to be polite, regal at its finest. True to its lineage of blue blood. Unlike his brother.</p><p>His brother, whom he misses <em>dearly.</em> He did not mean to offend his writings the last time they saw each other, nor did he really mean to spew hatred on his brother no, because as they grew up as naive and innocent children he was the only one who could listen to his problems. Their parents never cared, they only did when their sons are old and thriving.</p><p>"How's the land proposal to the family Taylor? Have they agreed to our invitation yet?"</p><p>"Not yet, papa, I've been waiting for a response for a fortnight." he offered his father some tea.</p><p>"Ta." grabbing the small teacup gingerly and taking a sip, "Oh, you're a national treasure, Arthur. Our family name would have vanished if it wasn't for you." his father encouraged a toast and that they did.</p><p>The truth is, his father is wrong. Very wrong.</p><p>Because if it weren't for his brother who wrote books upon books in a small country that is in love with literature then he could truly say their family name has vanished. He's done so much for the country and the small region of Milram that he simply cannot compete.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Familia.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>09.08.18??</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your embrace will continue to hunt my lifeless body,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Life will drift from me and into purgatory.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do not be scared of death,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>be scared of how it will come to you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the form of a human, a tool, sickness,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>or in a subtle, brusque kiss of a scythe.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-</em>
</p><p> </p><p>In the moment of his waking, he was surrounded by clouds in heaven. Angels singing in a harmony. Warmth beside him. Sniffing his scent that resembles the musk of nature. Ivory tanned body, littered with his marks, his <em>own</em> marks.</p><p>Within the span of two days, they have been domestic in each other's presence. Even bathing together at a private pond that Bretton reserved for the two of them. They also tried to test if they were indeed soulmates by drawing a small daisy at his wrist that immediately appeared on Edward's. He doubted no more.</p><p>While he mentioned daisy, an important fellow was brought up. Sir Olaf was his name, he decided he didn't want to push the topic further but Edward insisted as they talk underneath the same pinkish skies and the swaying wheat fields.</p><p>But all good things must come to an end. He had to bid farewell to his lover, the cab is already waiting outside the shop. He shook his hand, pretending that they weren't making love and instead was <em>talking business</em>.</p><p>He waved his hand again and went inside the vehicle.</p><p>"Professor Bretton, your majesty has asked for your return. Shall I drop you at the Academy or to the palace?" His driver asked at the window, he shuffled at his seat, a smile never leaving his lips.</p><p>"At the palace, whatever pleases mother. How is she by the way?" He brought out his journal for everyday living. For him to remember and reminisce about his mischiefs and deliriums.</p><p>"I'd say she's growing weak. She prefers to eat tea and biscuits than socialize." The driver sighs, "She's been weak because of your father- er!-"</p><p>Bretton's eyes shot wide open,</p><p>
  <em>It's not yet over?</em>
</p><p>"Even if Arthur is there?"</p><p>For a moment, the driver hesitated to speak.</p><p>Yet he continued.</p><p>"He does not speak a word whenever Sir Yang abuses her. We are worried about her health. We do not have the courage to lose our jobs, we're scared to speak up. I . . . I deeply apologize if I only said this now . . . but professor, it's getting <em>worse</em>."</p><p>After two days of paradise, comes reality, heightening his senses.</p><p>He ruffles his hair in frustration, a hug from Edward would be helpful right now. "Thank you for your honesty."</p><p>He wrote to his soulmate,<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear, please be safe wherever you may be. I'm handling personal issues with my family as of the moment, I may not visit you from time-to-time, so I request you to take care of yourself, my love.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I love you for all eternity, and I will continuously love you for as long as you let me.</em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em>You're such a romantic fucker.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I love you too, wanker. Come back to the shop if you have the time. I'll be waiting for you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>"I do not like this."</p><p>"Hmmm . . ."</p><p>Their mother's body looked stale, her life fleeting away slowly. The Yang brothers stand beside her deathbed.</p><p>"Has mother always been sick?" His slender hands tracing the palms of his ill mother, brown orbs have gone cloudy and murky with little to no life left.</p><p>Arthur nods, "<em>Certainly. </em>Even before you left the palace." For once, the man who speaks nothing but money and business has shown sympathy for his mother, "She's always looking for you. Asking your whereabouts, I don't have the heart to tell her that you're busier than me."</p><p>Brett's eyes are fixated on his mother's hand. Dainty as ever. With the rings of jewelry that symbolize their wealthy milieu. "Have we failed her, dear brother?"</p><p>"I don't think so, but I wish we could've done better."</p><p>"I wish father wasn't so <em>harsh</em> on her. Do you ever think about that?"</p><p>"They weren't soulmates. That's what mama told me."</p><p>Brett's eyes widened for a moment, "Really?" He asks.</p><p>"She told me her soulmate was a commoner. But they can't be together because . . ." Arthur bites his lip, drags a smoke, and then lets out a puff of air, "Money."</p><p>"Papa was a rich lad, no?"</p><p>Arthur nods, "I suppose so yes. I . . . I hate to say this but money <em>does rule</em> the world in this context. Shall mama marry the man she loves, it would've been a happy marriage."</p><p>"Hmm . . . We would've had a proper father."</p><p>The golden rays of the sun did nothing to revive their mother's lifeless body. His brother's cigar couldn't do anything to blow some smoke to wake her up, a weak kind of zephyr that can only move the small leaves in the fields. Both brothers felt puny now that they're under the control of their father.</p><p>
  <em>(If one can feel angels on a silly little place called earth, then what are the chances that you can encounter a devil too?)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>1858.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>"Do you ever see yourself rising in South Pasinthe?" Edward blurted out while rehairing the bow, combing relentlessly and getting rid of other tangles inside.</p><p>Sunny afternoon. Sunday. The professor on his break after a week of teaching, now unwinding at the luthier's shop.</p><p>It's been two years since they've kept this schedule. On weekdays they won't see each other, unless the professor had an errand, or planned to visit Edward, sometimes having an impromptu date planned for the two of them in the fields.</p><p>Bretton sat at the couch, a book in his hands, going over the mistakes and typographical errors from his student who sent him a copy of his novel,</p><p>"Believe me, darling, it's difficult. There's constant bickering especially that art is subjective." he circles one error, adjusting his round glasses.</p><p>He asks, "Have you ever been to Pasinthe professor?"</p><p>"I have. It's not as dreamy as everyone says it to be. Higher chances of competition, higher chances of failing. Everyone is frighteningly talented. No opportunities are wasted."</p><p>"So why did you stay here in Milram? It's a bit rubbish innit? You could've made a lot of money if you published your book there?" Edward continues to comb the bow.</p><p>Bretton chuckles, glance over to the side where his soulmate focuses strictly on the bow,</p><p>
  <em>Because I have been looking for you, in the city, all of my life. Now that I found you, I don't think I need to go anywhere else. God forbid that we part ways, but I know that if we ever land on the city of our dreams, I'll never let go of you. I'll take you everywhere you want and never let go of you.</em>
</p><p>"I think I don't need to explain myself," he flips over to the next page, halfway through the book it has been revised well.</p><p>Instead, his partner nods, not hearing the forsaken words of devotion that played in Bretton's head.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>. . . did you know that authors have diaries too?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>With a weary smile, Arthur goes on the financial records.</p><p>After revising the final record for the month, he goes on to make himself some tea, looking over the giant windows and the lush gardens. Their servants grooming the hedges for them.</p><p>He must make his father proud since his brother wanted to become a writer. If only Bretton became a lawyer, then he would've been taking something else he wanted.</p><p>He would've taken up Chemistry.</p><p>But here he is, managing lands, making a profit off of it. Here he is talking and exchanging goods with governors.</p><p>He finished his cup of tea and wandered through the palace. Not going anywhere specific, strolling. He noticed the cleanliness of the house. His mother is still grooming everything, <em>how nice.</em></p><p>Arthur stopped for a second, looked at the door with ornaments in them. His big brother's room. He never went home anyway, always in the academy. Professor Bretton, everyone knew him. Man of literature.</p><p>Arthur went inside to observe the room. It's the same old room he would barge in whenever he was feeling sad. His brother would come to his aid to make him feel better. He remembers the time he accidentally peed on the mattress, him panicking while Bretton laughed hysterically.</p><p>Except his father was inside too, opening a drawer, pulling a book.</p><p>"Papa, what is that on your hands?"</p><p>
  <em>(If one can feel angels on a silly little place called earth, then what are the chances that you can encounter a devil too?)</em>
</p><p>". . . Papa?"</p><p>"Your brother is a fucking homosexual."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Familia.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>"You don't hate him . . . Do you?" Ruth asks and gives Arthur his stacks of paperwork for a new factory to be built near the city in Milram, right beside the ocean.</p><p>The businessman scoffs at him, glancing funnily at his side, "You might be a writer Ruth, but your vocabulary says otherwise."</p><p>"Was I a bit too blunt, eh?"</p><p>Arthur raised his brow, "A bit? Do you mean a lot? Like a bloke?"</p><p>"<em>Oooh la la, bold words my my! </em>Say where are our manners, Mr. Arthur? Surely your family wouldn't want to hear this from you." Cheekily, he grabs one of the papers and his smile disintegrates.</p><p>"I don't give much thought about what they think. Besides, I'm worried about my brother."</p><p>Ruth focuses on the younger's thoughts, "My mentor? Why's that? He didn't do anything stupid, did he? He's far too refined for that. Unlike you who drink heavily at the pub back then in university-"</p><p>"Shush it you absolute-" Arthur recollects himself, a huge shift of mood was plastered in expressions, "Papa saw his journal. I know he's planning something sinister, I can't just, just----just <em>watch</em>. He found out my brother is a homosexual, which is none of my concern nor business. But papa-"</p><p>"So you know he's a homosexual? Into men?"</p><p>"While I'm opposed to the idea, I'm not exactly heartless. He's my brother, after all-"</p><p>"But your father despises his reputation to be tarnished, eh?"</p><p>"Precisely. This could just stay as a secret within the family but knowing papa I'm certain that he's setting my brother to one of the ladies in the family Taylor, hence the paperwork for their new mansion near the city."</p><p>"Don't you think . . . You should help Professor Bretton?"</p><p>"Ruth, believe me, I want to. I really do. But you know how powerful Papa is, he has led me to believe that hating my brother was better than staying by his side."</p><p>Ruth jumps from his seat and gives the stack of documents back to Arthur, "You're a pity dear sire, but I suggest you not delve much in your father's corrupt ways. You know how it is getting latched underneath his grasp."</p><p>Arthur bows his head down, glances at the rings hugging his fingers, a reminder of his social status. Royalty.</p><p>His brother is a homosexual under a royal family.</p><p>Ruth walks away and then says something under his breath that brought the confused man into a whirlwind of emotions.</p><p>"Arthur, I wish to tell you it isn't the end yet. You can always help Professor Bretton. <em>You wouldn't want to be the reason why he met death, eh?</em>"</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>No matter how clean and tidy the mansion looks, the stench of ignorance and apathy irks him. Like the putrid smell of decayed rats by the city, adding in the harsh tang of oil and sea.</p><p>It reeks of regal and privilege, characteristics that he wishes he can erase from himself. It also reminds him that his mother is long gone now, the power of the family is now in the hands of his father.</p><p>Bretton hates it, even more, when he knew his journal was found by the demon himself.</p><p>"So you're telling me that you're a homosexual?" Grimaced, proud, his father takes another sip of whiskey while judging his son.</p><p>Bretton crossed his arms and muttered words that he can only hear, "Yes and I wish you could die from alcohol poisoning." surprisingly, Arthur did too.</p><p>"Of all the people in our family, my, my, romantic author a fucking faggot. Who's this, Edward? A commoner? So you like poor and filthy commoners . . . is <em>that</em> it?"</p><p>Anger, slowly simmering under his skin. Making his blood boil, like magmas with uncontrollable heat and flow. His eyes could only stare at the motion of his father holding his journal. Mocking that he wrote such entries.</p><p>Bretton clenched his jaws, "Oh papa, how I wish I have a gun right now so I can shoot you with a bullet to silent your nonsensical blabberings."</p><p>His papa chuckles, "Of all the things that you can be, you are not a violent man. You <em>do not</em> have a gun under your coat, so, <em>let me</em> give you a deal. I leave you alone, but you'd have to marry the eldest of the Taylor's. Their riches and ours would be combined, we'd stay rich for centuries to come. Or, you can stay at that poor soulmate of yours, but I will <em>leak</em> your pathetic entries."</p><p>His hands felt nothing, it's weightlessly held under the pressure of his father's words. Commandeering all hope of his life to be spent away with his one true love. How he wishes that the words of adoration he spoke to Edward two years ago can be put into practice, but, dear almighty, Gods has turned their backs to the fate of our beloved author.</p><p>"Give me a month. I'll tell you my decision."</p><p>"No," his papa brought out a match, "A week shall suffice. Or else, I'll start leaking your entries <em>day . . . by . . . day</em>." lighting up a fire, placing it near the journal. Leather touching the edges of ablaze ember, provoking the author and slowly bleeding into a salvo of threats.</p><p>He felt like a child again, but this time he's helpless.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>. . . Home . . .</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bretton knocked on the violin shop, relieved to see his soulmate crafting another violin.</p><p>Edward saw the author like a foreign beggar, with bloodshot eyes, disheveled hair, <em>Bretton Yang what happened to you?</em></p><p>He opens the door and carries his lover like a tired toddler from playtime; he cannot ignore the beads of tears that formed delicately at his cheeks. He gives him a tight hug as he closes all the curtains for maximum privacy.</p><p>Edward leads him inside the shop, then to their shared room. He rubs the author's shoulders and massages him hoping that it will calm him down. "Love, what's wrong? Did something happen?"</p><p>The author's chin trembled, his lips quivering constantly. "What's the matter, love?" Edward searches for any signs of hope that these are tears of joy, have their paperwork for South Pasinthe finally worked? Can they be legally married together?</p><p>Edward could feel a presentiment of danger, chaos, and oh no . . .</p><p>
  <em>Death?</em>
</p><p>His arms failed both of them, the tight latch loosened as he observes the situation carefully. Petals of the truth descending right in front of his very eyes. Well, what is the truth when it hasn't been said by Bretton?</p><p>"Just . . . <em>please</em>, tell me what it is about. I do not like it when you're hurting." Edward gently removes the circle framed glasses. He wipes the tears that huddled in his eyes, a gentle kiss on the forehead, and Bretton was left leaning in his touch.</p><p>"I, I can't . . ."</p><p>"I know you can." The luthier gingerly touches the author's cheeks, "I'll wait for your message, whatever it may be."</p><p>"Then . . . Then don't wait," he grabs for his handkerchief and blows his nose, "Are you sure you want to know?"</p><p>"Certain."</p><p>A sharp intake of oxygen felt new to his system, unlike earlier with waters in his eyes. He steadies his breathing. It calms him down. His trembling hands were no longer moving.</p><p>"I <em>don't </em>want to hurt you, Edward." Bretton looked up at his partner's eyes, orbs of umber, maybe that can yield him into thinking that there <em>is</em> hope.</p><p>"Even if I regret knowing you, or wishing I hadn't, darling, I would rather have my heart broken by you than any other royal or commoner." he weaves his fingers to the crying man, "That's what you have written to me years ago. The very first time that I wrote back."</p><p>"So break my heart, Yang."</p><p>The professor tightens his grip, "I am given a week to make a decision. Be married to the eldest in the royal family, Taylor's, and never see you again or be with you but my journal entries will be leaked which in turn contains proofs that I am a homosexual." he pauses and then leans back into Edward's chest, "Milram can see me as a homosexual I do not mind, I do not care as long as I can live my life with you."</p><p>"But, love, you do realize that even homosexuals like us can be killed right? It is applicable by law . . ." Now it was Edward's time to weep, a quick roll of tears, and then followed by another, "I <em>don't</em> want you to die . . . God I-I don't want you to. Everyone I love has died, <em>please</em>, don't become one of them . . ." He pleads.</p><p>"I understand. Then, I will give into papa's decision . . . Yes? Because to tell you the truth, I do not want to. I refuse."</p><p>"But Bretton don't be so hard-headed, there's not much we can do. Maybe, it's better if we live away from each other."</p><p>"No! No, stay here in Milram!" His slender hands now gripping onto Ed's sleeves, "I can't lose you. Don't go too far, I want you around. I want you near."</p><p>A warm pair of palms meet the author's cheeks, "It would be better if I leave. For you, <em>for us</em>. I would continue Olaf's little legacy, heh, that would be nice. You can always write to me you know? In your palms, in your novels or in your heart . . . Right? And then you can continue teaching again, it'll be back to normal-"</p><p>The author wraps himself around Edward's chest. Snuggling in, until he can feel the wetness of the tears transfer to his shoulders. Wanting to scream at the mercy of grieving and anger. In the need to kiss and cry to Edward. The avalanche of nothingness and everything at all hits him into a steady pour of sadness.</p><p>How can Edward stay sane when his lover is wrapped around him like this? How can he think rationally when in truth, his heart screams for Bretton to stay here in the shop with him? How can he live life knowing who his soulmate is, but knows it in himself is happy with the loving hands of another person, a woman that he doesn't even truly love?</p><p>Still, he kept his tears to himself. He listens to the cacophony of sobs and whimpers. Maybe, if he chose to hide what he feels Bretton wouldn't notice?</p><p>Whines. Sniffles. Crying, and more crying.</p><p>Slowly, Bretton calms down and hugs Edward a bit tighter than before. Checking if his soulmate is even there.</p><p>"I do not want to let go of you."</p><p>"You have to."</p><p>"I do not want to."</p><p>Edward sighs, he really has no choice, "Alright. Then I will."</p><p>As soon as he lets go of their embrace, the author quickly places him back to the bed and tackles him. Like a baby wary of their mother letting go of him.</p><p>"Not now! Stay with me!" And then they were hugging each other again.</p><p>
  <em>(Cupid, I thought you were real. Where are you when I needed you?)</em>
</p><p>His eyes felt puffed up. It felt tiring to keep them open, "I cherish thee, Edward. I want you to know that. I cherish thee. Even if I'm in the company of a woman or whoever my papa fancies no one can compare to you."</p><p>"You're like a small kid proving your love to their mother, you're surprisingly adorable do you know that?"</p><p>Bretton proses an idea, "Shall we have an oath for each other?"</p><p>"An oath? For what?"</p><p>Bretton looks up, hopeful. "That even if we're apart, maybe, if time may befriend us, we can still see each other and love each other."</p><p>"Even if we're apart, we'll still remember each other?"</p><p>Bretton answer, "Even if we're apart, I'll <em>never</em> forget you." He gives a slow kiss to his partner.</p><p>"You're that . . . <em>Desperate</em> not to let me go?"</p><p>It was painful to see the author this vulnerable. Where did his refined façade go when this stream of emotion convulsed unexpectedly?</p><p>"Of course I don't want to let go of you."</p><p>False hope, but it was needed. It was required. "We have days. Our last remaining days together."</p><p>"Last remaining days to be truly happy." He lets go for a moment and searches for something inside the pocket of his coat. "I know ladies typically wear necklaces, but I figured this one suits you."</p><p>He brings out an emerald necklace; the green color reflects the light and pierces through their skin. "I chose emerald because well, it suits your skin and of course its marvelous meaning."</p><p>Edward asks, "Well, what is its meaning?"</p><p>"I don't want to tell you yet. I just want you to keep it." He unlatches the necklace so his lover can wear it, "May I?"</p><p>The luthier nods and allows the other man to place the jewelry on his neck. The golden linings and the green gem does compliment his tan skin. It's a very pretty feature; he didn't felt like a commoner with such a grandiose item. The author pressed a swift kiss on Edward's back. Trailing to the corner of his neck.</p><p>"It's going to be hard to let go of you if you keep spoiling me like this." He turns around to meet the gaze of the author. Kissing him this time in the lips and intertwining their hands again.</p><p>"Then don't let me go," Bretton whispered softly.</p><p>"Oh blimey, are we going to have this talk again? You're either going to smooch a lady or get killed. What would you prefer?"</p><p>"Well kissing a <em>hag</em> is like asking for death-"</p><p>"Bretton! I can't believe you used to court women and now you're here despising on them! Goodness."</p><p>He looks at the author, this time stern. He will most likely stutter, or let out a voice crack but it needs to be said.</p><p>"We have to let go of each other, Professor."</p><p>Petals of the truth. Descending piece by piece, right in front of his very eyes.</p><p>Because the truth is, none of them wanted to part. None of them wanted to be separated.</p><p>None of them wanted this in the first place.</p><p>But they have to.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Before their last remaining days together bled into nothingness, they've spoken about their modes of communication.</p><p>Letters are too dangerous. The postman can read those.</p><p>Trying to see each other is useless; Bretton is locked away in the palace. He can't even teach properly in the Academy.</p><p>As weeks dissolved into months, Edward has packed his items into a case and bid farewell to Milram. Traveling by train, Bretton granted him access to a private booth. For ease and a safe journey as well.</p><p>Surprisingly, the man who gave him his ticket was not the author, but a man who resembled him. The same shape of the eyes, a lot taller and muscular.</p><p>"You must be Edward?"</p><p>He turns around to see a stranger, well, a <em>royal</em>. "I am."</p><p>He hands him the ticket and a briefcase. "My brother wants you to be safe. Now that we're in the hands of my father freedom is not guaranteed. I hope you will be well in South Pasinthe."</p><p>"Oh, thank you. I'm afraid I never caught your name?"</p><p>"Arthur. Arthur Yang. Should you continue your little shop in the South, here's the map to the country. The circled area here is a cottage available for you."</p><p>Wait, this is not a space for rent right? He's not rich enough to afford expensive rent. "Oh no! I will search for a house myself!"</p><p>"Did you <em>bloody</em> think that you're going to pay for that?"</p><p>"Err . . . Yes?"</p><p>"Silly man! Your lover paid me for this. Relax in that cottage and I pray that your business will boom. Now, here," he grabs one of his Ed's cases and leads him to the leaving train. "Stay safe, Edward."</p><p>And as soon as the train hit off and Arthur's waved him goodbye, deep inside he was filled with questions. Why was he so happy to give him the tickets? Is Arthur happy that Bretton and he did not end up together? Or was he planning to set them up in the future?</p><p>Edward finds himself slumping at the private booths at the train. Alone.<em> Again</em>. Traveling to the country he dreamed the most. <em>South Pasinthe.</em></p><p>Years ago he planned to reside in the country of Liberalism and Arts with his lover, but fate has its own decision.</p><p>Perhaps, it was better like this. He knew the world would be unfair to them.</p><p>So, he traced back to the roots of how they met each other. Writing on their wrists.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hello love. This is my first day of being away with you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'm missing you more than I ever imagined. I know that it will take a while for us to live like this, but I'll wait until your marriage with the Taylor's is over.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want to be with you wherever you may be. Iffy it feels now that I am writing to you.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>His fingers tread on the outline of his emerald necklace, hidden under his white top while his eyes stared at the moving scenery. He would also miss Milram, especially this river of mountains almost racing to touch the firmaments above in an attempt to have the highest peak. He can't forget the wide fields of golden ears of wheat and weeds.</p><p>Their impromptu dates, bountiful picnics, and kisses under the setting sun. God, he will miss that.</p><p>He glances at his wrists and was surprised by the words forming under his skin. Letter by letter, bit by bit. Almost as if, the author was speaking to him.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></p><p>
  <em>Love, I woefully regret to tell you that I am under the hands of my father's manipulative ways. I wish I can escape from this awful palace and run to you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I wish I can break freely under this tyrannical spell my father has placed me on; he is not a woman why act wickedly like a witch? On another note, I want you to continue Olaf's legacy. I want you to flourish and bloom in the South because I know you belong there.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want you to continue working for the thought of him, not me. You are more than encouraged to forget about me. As long as my father lives, I will rot and die in this château of white lies. How I wish I can move the world...</em>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I know you can.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Go back to writing books Professor. Write and move the world. You know how Milram walks around the city and lets your book orbit their minds, right?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Edward waits for a reply, with a heavy chest he leans on the window and looks through the horizon.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I promise to never forget you. And even before we made an oath I already know it in myself that I can't.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>How can I ever forget you, Bretton Yang?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Matilda Taylors is her name.</p><p>Her favorite shade of blush was baby pink.</p><p>She knew nothing about the inner turmoil Bretton was facing and did everything she could to please him.</p><p>At the dinner table, it was obvious that the author had no intention of socializing. He simply ate his greens, his meat and excused himself. He can't teach in the Academy anymore, not that he didn't want to but his father insisted that he's <em>rich enough. </em>He locked himself in his room and let no one inside.</p><p>It got worse as fourteen nights passed. He had creases under his eyes, tousled hair that was not as attractive back then, was this really the renowned author that wrote about romance? What happened to him?</p><p>Ruth knocked on Bretton's room, "Professor? Are you in there?" He let himself inside and witnessed the poor author drinking alcohol. "What are you doing?"</p><p>"I need to write. I need to write. I need to write. I need to-"</p><p>Ruth glances at the book the author was jotting or more likely, scrawling on. There were no words that can be easily read by the human eye, no beautiful poems or phrases that were back then written carefully then placed at appropriate verses.</p><p>Is that blood or red ink? "Professor, please, calm down . . . Come, let's sit, eh?" as soon as his hands made contact with his mentor's shoulders, Bretton tries to jab the other man's chest in an attempt to kill him.</p><p>"Professor!" his hands gripped the other man's arms, he's sober and in control of his surroundings. He thwacked him in his bed while his choice of weapon, a sharp quilt lies dead on the ground. "What happened to you?"</p><p>"I <em>need</em> to kill him."</p><p>"Kill who?"</p><p>"Him!"</p><p>"Which one?" Ruth stands dumbfounded with hands on his hips and furrowed brows. He had to slap himself mentally to remind himself he's the sane and sober one here.</p><p>Bretton lifts his glasses, with broken shards and fingerprints left by his lover since the last time they spoke to each other. "I want to kill my father. I <em>need</em> to kill him."</p><p>"If you want the government of Milram to assassinate you while learning that you love Edward then that sounds like a crock of nonsense, eh?" Ruth sits down at the bed beside the drunken man; his thoughts looked grim and eerie. "Matilda Taylors isn't going anywhere Professor, she also wants the money that is shared between both families."</p><p>Bretton asks, "How did you know?"</p><p>"Your brother told me." He laughs humorlessly, "I'm like a messenger for the both of you, eh?"</p><p>"That fucker isn't doing anything either." He snatches his cigar and match, lights up a flame, and draws out a long smoke. "Only cares about his land, absolute worthless pig."</p><p>"I wasn't aware that you smoked Professor."</p><p>"A man must have at all times aid to their moral consolations . . . Ruth, I cannot write romance anymore. How should I write about love when my soulmate is far away from me? Why should I live? <em>Why should I exist</em>?"</p><p>"The very same reason why you write is to move the world. I'm certain that Milram will accept your writing whatever it can consist of, even if it's not about romance."</p><p>"Are you certain about that?" There was that frightening premonition of hope again, he didn't want to move away from this hollow shell of weariness, of longing, of isolation. Hope, however, <em>doesn't sound so bad</em>.</p><p>"Surprise us, eh?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>"Purgatory"</b>
</p><p>
  <em>I stand within a manor,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clothed in frail and bleary armor,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And with mirrors upon mirrors,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shall reflect improper demeanor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The dark side of the moon has risen,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Far different from that by the sun.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At night when terror prisons,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My sanity has long been gone.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was once a human, I felt it too,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I loved, dear I loved.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>My hands still endure the pain,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Those residues and leaves me blue.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I stand within a manor,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That tolls the bell of shrieking horror.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>All the souls from hell left walking,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>By the bay, by the oceans strolling.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(No God is in favor of your misery)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I am in purgatory.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Noose was my saving glory.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It's has been a month when Bretton <em>fixed</em> his new book for publishing. It was mostly Ruth that took care of everything together with his group of students that were working in the Academy and writing their own. They kept a secret hidden between the curves of every serif letters.</p><p>Bretton waits for the news that his books started selling. For now, he's left <em>stuck</em> at the palace. His tired eyes inevitably stared into nothingness and wish to go outside for once. But no, his father will get in the way and hunt him down and he didn't want that.</p><p>His love will always write to him every morning and night. And with silly little entries, he can use it to get through the day.</p><p>He would describe the fresh apple he bought in the market or the kind princess that commissioned him three violins but she doubled the price. His lover even told him that many of the orchestras within the country had referred to his shop, so he had to work harder and hired other luthiers to help expand the needs of the business.</p><p>That resulted in less . . . talking. <em>Less writing.</em></p><p>Bretton felt like he hit rock bottom when he didn't receive any writings from Edward. Sometimes, he would starve himself and will only eat when he saw a word or two from him. Sometimes none at all.</p><p>His father in return sermoned like a pagan saint forcing everyone to believe in him, a useless religion that didn't have any set of beliefs. <em>Follow me</em>, he preached. <em>Pay attention to me</em>, he preached. <em>Listen to me</em>, he preached.</p><p>Sermons turned into attacks. A punch, a blow, a kick in the shin, pressing his cigar on his face. It all drove him angry when his brother would watch.</p><p>Only watch.</p><p>
  <em>Remember, emotions are useless. It's an error in the system. He didn't cry when his mother died, he tried not to cry when Edward left him, he tried not to cry whenever his father would hit him.</em>
</p><p>Therefore, Arthur continues to watch.</p><p>"How much more can you endure before you help me?" bleary. Brittle and almost deflowered, Bretton goes back to his room avoiding the strange looks of their servants.</p><p>
  <em>How long will you watch until he dies?</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>-</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The whole country was in a state of shock when they read his book.</p><p>Mystery and thriller, people are left to thinking that the author has adopted a new writing style. </p><p>Yet the critics were not too pleased with his work. They said it was <em>lazy</em>, it was an excuse to forget about his origin of writing. It was too <em>explicit</em>.</p><p>But were they aware of what's happening inside the palace? If only they knew.</p><p>Both the Taylor's and the Yangs have been talking business, trying to expand the possibility of selling the rural lands and turning it into factories.</p><p>His brother could only nod, smile, and agree to every word they say. Like a dog, loyal to its owner. Disappointing. He knew his brother was opposed to this plan ages ago.</p><p>Matilda tried talking to him but her personality is drier than white crackers. It's obvious that she also wanted the money, she wanted to inherit every penny once they tie their vows.</p><p>He didn't want to marry a bimbo. Marriage is not his priority, writing is.</p><p>Bretton sits at his table. His journal, snug, and secure.</p><p>What if . . . He starts to leak his journal entries <em>purposefully?</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Noose was my saving glory.</em>
</p><p>It took months before Edward could have a copy of his soulmate's book. It was hardbound and had the same velvet feel to it, with emerald green as its choice of color. <em>Like his necklace.</em></p><p>Ever since he landed in the South his instruments were well received by musicians and people who admired his craft. There were customers left and right, and he planned to expand his small business as well. His mind got stuck in crafting violins that he almost forgot his lover had just written a new book.</p><p>A new book of foreign poems and words. This wasn't dreamy, not even mellow.</p><p>"He would never write like this, are you sure this isn't a mistake?"</p><p>One of his luthiers said, "Mister it says there, Bretton Yang. Is there anyone other than Bretton Yang?"</p><p>"N-no . . . But his writing looks . . . Different." He skims the pages again, back and forth, and spots for any sign that it might be a mistake.</p><p>Edward takes a sip of his water <em>(it was boiled mind you)</em> and takes a deep breath. What happened to him? The thought of writing to Bretton popped up and slowly deflates when another customer requests a custom-made violin.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"What is wrong with you!?"</p><p>"And a bloody good morning to you too." For the first time in dreadful months, Bretton was able to smile again. He read the daily mail; he was <em>finally</em> going to court.</p><p>"Why did you leak your journal!?"</p><p>"Are you sure that's my only journal? I will not drop my soulmate's name so easily Ruth that's rather idiotic. Please, join me. It's a bountiful feast." His hand gestures to the copious amounts of desserts and scrumptious meat on the table. "It's my time to celebrate."</p><p>"Celebrate!? Celebrate what? Professor, I <em>do not</em> understand how you could think this way! This is a recipe for suicide!" The younger tried to reason his way to stop the author whose actions have been nothing but questionable. "Are you mad? Do you know what you're doing? People are starting to hate you, Professor, shall your achievements your glory, and your works be burned just because you are a homosexual? Like vermin ransacking your mansion!?" his voice roared in the empty dining room.</p><p>But the manic author laughs, and he laughs. "It's not my fault that the universe tied me and Edward together. Ruth, this is my decision to admit who I truly am."</p><p>"Why didn't you <b>just</b> stay silent? Why can't you <b>just </b>stay quiet?"</p><p>"Why <b>can't</b> they accept me?" He rebuts back. "I know you accept for who I am, you are a Godsend Ruth Williams but let me settle this on my own. I will plead guilty to the court and will ask for execution. It's the <em>only</em> way out." Clasping his hands together, slightly a tremor as he finds it hard to grasp the wine glass.</p><p>His diligent pupil starts breaking down in front of him. Convulsing a stream of tears, with obvious trails of wetness in his cheeks. "Why are you crying?"</p><p>"You are asking for death. Of course, I am going to weep for you."</p><p>His arm reached for the other wine glass with sparkling champagne. "I am not a saint. My death shouldn't be glorified nor remembered. I will die labeled as scum in the country. So, do not cry for me."</p><p>"Then, could you at least say farewell to your pupils for the last time? I am certain most of us would die to see you live your final days . . ."</p><p>"I cannot refuse that offer." A sincere smile. Finally.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A man arrived at the confined room that implies secrecy. No windows, no paintings to accentuate the rich brown colors of the table and the sofa, and no books to entertain guests. Unabashed, Bretton smirks at him with his hair neatly combed at the side. Ah, finally, a man around his age too.</p><p>"Lawyer?"</p><p>"Err . . . Yes, I did not expect that I will be handling your case sir . . ." the lawyer scratches the back of his head, "Ray."</p><p>His clammy and shaking hands were obvious from where Bretton was sitting, what is he nervous about anyway? Was he nervous that he wouldn't be able to win this case? "I am here to protect your reputation and prove that you are not a homosexual."</p><p>They shook hands promptly. "That will be useless. Did my father pay you?"</p><p>"He did <em>hire</em> me."</p><p>Bretton scoffed, "Then why are you still here? Lucky lad, you could've just never appeared and let me be got killed."</p><p>"I apologize Professor, but I do not work that way." There was this subtle glint of naivety and a strong sense of morality in his stance. An innocent man wanting to serve justice to all he meets. Heroic and stupid. "Did you write those journey entries on purpose? Were you framed?"</p><p>"Well, have you read them?"</p><p>"I have, it is very . . . disturbing and, well, I do not mean to offend you but it is <em>shocking</em>."</p><p>Bretton chuckles softly, "You are not offending anyone here; your words are much kinder compared to the older officials I spoke to."</p><p>"I am not opposed to the idea of loving who you want to, but as the law states homosexuality is banned at all costs. Shall there be proofs of such actions then it is perfectly legal to be imprisoned for their whole life or be . . . executed. As my client, I resent the thought of you dying. I will do what it takes to win this case." Ray explains.</p><p>"You see . . . I do not <em>need</em> to win this case. My journals are solid proofs of my sins. There's not much you can do to help me out of this, Ray."</p><p>"But, does that mean that your soulmate is a man and homosexual like you? Are you sure that it wasn't a mistake? Perhaps it was an error in the system?"</p><p>"No, it wasn't a mistake. We've tested it before, we've communicated through writing in our wrists. He's a man as well . . . It frightens me, honestly. To think that there might be homosexuals in the country too who are facing this situation. It may sound strange and it is, but I cannot erase it in myself to love who I want to love. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."</p><p>"So your poems, are loosely based on . . . a man?"</p><p>"A man, a woman, my mother, my colleagues I can write poems to whomever I want. So tell me, am I a sinner? Am I a mere animal? What am I, Ray?"</p><p>The lawyer stammers, trying to find a coherent answer. "I . . . I don't . . . I don't judge you."</p><p>"You don't need to," Bretton smiles. "but the Gods above us can."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The raven firmament casts a looming shadow over the hills; there were no stars to light up the sky but rather a sheath of grey clouds blocking the moon. Here, on the same green fields of Tyburn, the same green fields he chatted with Sophie, the same green fields that he lavished his precious time with his soulmate, the same green fields that will host his <em>execution</em> tomorrow.</p><p>His executioner is a peeler (cop) who was tasked to accompany him, or more likely, hang him.</p><p>He pointed, "There in all its glory, scary innit?"</p><p>"I suppose so, yes." The wooden gallows look like a podium for speeches, but the noose moving with the chilling breeze reminds him of the reason why he is here.</p><p>"I trust that you won't do anything suspicious. I will not be strict on you this time Professor."</p><p>"Oh, well, thank you . . . Sergeant."</p><p>"Is there anything you wish to do before the sun rises?"</p><p>His feet carried on while they tread on the hills, going back to town while his hands are cuffed to his back. Well, there <em>is</em> something he wished to do before his life was fully over.</p><p>"I would like to send letters to my pupils. I wish to tell them my parting words."</p><p>The sergeant nodded, "Very well then. I will send it to a postman to deliver it. There will be a lot of them correct?"</p><p>"Correct, some of them are in South Pasinthe and North Lotham. Would he be able to deliver it in a short amount of time?"</p><p>"I cannot assure you that it will only take a fortnight, perhaps a month or two," the officer paused as he leads the author to his cell, "Good night Professor, we'll meet again tomorrow."</p><p>His hands were loosened from the heavy cuffs. "Good night officer."</p><p>Although heavy, Bretton tried to lift it up so he can place a hand on the officer's shoulders, "How long is the travel time from here to South Pasinthe?"</p><p>"Approximately 5 hours professor, why?"</p><p>"Is it possible for me to pay a visit from someone there?"</p><p>"Then are you comfortable with 7 policemen surrounding you in the train?"</p><p>"What a delight that would be."</p><p> </p><p><br/>-</p><p> </p><p><br/>Edward woke up in the middle of the night.</p><p>He didn't know why, but for some reason, he felt his stomach churn. His gut is telling him that something's about to happen, but he didn't mind it.</p><p>The town in South Pasinthe is fast asleep. But Edward thought that it'd be nice to check on his shop just to be sure. He got out of his bed and fixed his hair a bit. The luthier got out of his room and went downstairs, the little oil lamp is still lit.</p><p>He used it to light up other lamps as well, the cozy feeling in the shop was back. Yet the irony of the cozy atmosphere is he never felt complete. Something is always missing. Sometimes it gets empty. He feels alone, it would definitely be nice if his assistant luthiers were here.</p><p>It would be nice if Bretton was here.</p><p>Edward jumped from his seat when he heard loud knocks from the door. <em>Huh?</em> Cops don't wear green uniform in Pasinthe-</p><p>
  <em>Hold on . . .</em>
</p><p>"Oh Lord almighty," Edward stepped hastily to the door, "Am I dreaming?"</p><p>His soulmate came all the way from Milram, to here. He looked like the cops sucked the life out of him, he was wearing plain commoner clothes. What surprised him were the cops pointing their truncheons at Edward, only one member brought out his revolver. Seems like he's the chief of police. </p><p>"Professor Bretton?"</p><p>"How do you know him?" The cop with the revolver demandingly asked.</p><p><em>He's my soulmate, </em>"He used to teach us literature in the slums, quite the generous fellow is it not?"</p><p>"May I ask why you planned to visit here?"</p><p>"I need your assistance, I wish to give my dearly beloved letters before I die tomorrow." <em>Yet your dearly beloved is right in front of you . . .</em></p><p>"Surely-"</p><p>"Why can't you just give it to the postman?" The same stern cop interrupted their conversation.</p><p><em>Think fast, my love. - </em>Bretton wishes to himself.</p><p>And Edward granted such wish.</p><p>"I apologize, but his dearly beloved does not stay in one location. If one were to try and give him a letter that would be futile, I shall be the recipient for he visits the shop quite regularly." He was able to come up with a solution in a matter of seconds.</p><p>"If you say so Sir Edward. Professor, 25 minutes shall be enough."</p><p>"That would be lovely, thank you." Bretton still had cuffs behind him. He went inside the shop while the rest of the cops stayed outside.</p><p>"We have to be a bit quiet," Bretton murmured.</p><p>"I-I, I do not know what to say . . . I do not know anything yet. Please, enlighten me." Edward moved a little closer to where the author was standing. He started reaching out his arms for a hug, Bretton quickly latched on to him.</p><p>"Tell me everything. In this short period of time . . . You're going to die tomorrow? And why? Don't tell me, they <em>found</em> out about-"</p><p>"About my journals yes."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"I leaked it."</p><p>"Yes, but why? Why would you do that!? You're going to leave me alone, in this <em>cruel</em> . . . <em>cruel</em> world . . . " it was getting difficult to talk or argue, quiet, hushed tones of disappointment. Bretton felt that.</p><p>He felt that disappointment from months and months of waiting. He felt that disappointment that stemmed from the stressful days he was rushing to make violins. He felt every little thing.</p><p>But there's no turning back now.</p><p>"Cheating on death is not my expertise, you know that right? I couldn't <em>stomach</em> being wedded to a woman like that bimbo in the palace."</p><p>"So your resolution is, suicide? Is that it?" Slowly, the tears started appearing from the luthier's eyes.</p><p>"No, I did not kill myself. The law did. I'm tired of living in the palace without you there. I'm tired of Papa beating me up. I'm tired of hiding from the public about my romantic interests. Now I have nothing to hide. So you don't have to either." Edward held him tighter. Savoring the last moments before Bretton's body becomes stale.</p><p>"I'm not leaving you, <em>never</em>. But I figured that you deserve freedom, you deserve to be liberated away from me. Once I am gone, <b>you do not have to fear for you life.</b> You do not have to fear that you will be executed. I will be the first and hopefully the last person to be killed for this,"</p><p>Bretton gently kisses Edward's cheek that are trailed with tears, "I am a sinner. I am a criminal."</p><p>"You're <em>not</em> making any sense! Bretton we had a plan-we-we had a <em>fucking</em>-"</p><p>"Live for me. Live the life Olaf wanted you. Live the life I failed to achieve. This is my final goodbye for you."</p><p>"Everyone I loved . . .  <em>died</em> . . . I don't want you, to die either."</p><p>"My love," </p><p>"It's been a long time since you've called me that."</p><p>"If I have these shackles off of me, my the things I would do. But I really do want to say goodbye. In another lifetime, perhaps we can truly love who we want to love. But not in this unfair country. Where the law prohibits me and you. One thing I am certain of is that <em>you are my soulmate." </em>a chaste kiss on the lips.</p><p>"My one and only." Another on Edward's neck.</p><p>"I will love you forever, and possibly even after that. For our love is immeasurable by law." And lastly, tip-toeing to plant a peck on his forehead. Finally, another smile from the author. The last remaining moments of the pair consisted of tightly hugging each other in an attempt to ease the heaviness in their chests. Hushed declarations of love to each other, their last moments were indulged in sorrow.</p><p>A lover's kiss goodbye. Felt bittersweet. </p><p>
  <em>(Cupid, I shall reach the heavens sooner or later. I do not need to pray anymore.)</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"C<em>an soulmates just write on each other's wrists?"</em></p><p>
  <em>"I suppose so yes, but it seems that he wanted the letter to be physical. After all, it is his last tchotchke of living."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Hmm, Ruth Williams looked really devastated."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"His student? Poor lad, always looking after his mentor."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Yet that's his fault for being a faggot."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>All he could remember was trying to ride a horse on its back and watching the sun die down together with his younger brother and his father.</em>
  <br/>
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</p><p>The view of the sunset was the perfect scenery for paintings, marmalade, and fuschia concocted in a swirl that makes him feel dreamy. From their palace, they could have a clear view of the city of Milram. If there's something that he could also view from far away, it was the fields of Tyburn and the gallow that was built in the middle. Not to mention the newly built platforms that other middle-classes to pay just for enjoyment.</p><p>His father was long gone into a deep pool of outstanding payments, debts toppling each other. It was hard not to sell every single piece of jewelry and treasure they have. Now they're surrounded with broken furniture and a line of servants waiting to be paid. Arthur's mind is spinning constantly, they have hit rock bottom and it doesn't seem that they are rising anytime soon.</p><p>Though his father could steal some of the country's taxes, that wouldn't happen anytime either with his reputation as the father of a homosexual who committed actions that were not accepted in their society.</p><p>Now, all he could do was <em>watch.</em></p><p>His father wasn't awake; perhaps he was still hungover from last night's whiskey session of his. Drinking his troubles and hoping that the alcohol can trick him that all is well. <em>All is not well.</em></p><p>The people watched as his brother stepped on the ladder with a bag on his head. From afar he could just imagine how tired Bretton is with everything, that even the boisterous cheers from the crowd do not faze him anymore. He bowed his head down. The sergeant tied the noose with the rope underneath his chin, a submental knot, fitting for a fast and easy death.</p><p><em>"You do not want to be the reason why he met death, eh?</em>"</p><p>Slowly, one step at a time then lands at the small wooden plank that will drop him to end his life.</p><p>His lips quivers, hands are pouring beads of sweat, accelerated heart rate. He couldn't hear anything except his heart pumping out of his ribcage, trying to escape inside him.</p><p>
  <em>Are people this happy to see me die? I should've been dead years ago, then Milram would've flourished.</em>
</p><p>His feet fidgety underneath his shoes. He tried to resist the heavy chains on his wrists but he can't, <b>this is the end.</b> Total and absolute darkness, no hope to escape from the fate he decided himself. Be killed in front of greedy mortals, amused and entertained with public executions. Synonymous to every feast he's had in his life. Meat, tore into pieces butchered and cut with its blood pouring down the drain and drank by every rat in the gutter. He bit his lips until he could feel the metallic taste of blood.</p><p>He suddenly felt guilty for leaving Edward alone in this cruel world, but he knows that their love is not enough within the realms of mortals. Their love shall thrive even in purgatory. Their love shall thrive in the afterlife.<br/><br/><br/><br/><br/></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Gods above,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pull me up in heaven with this noose in front of thee. I wish to see thy delicate faces of mercy shining upon me. I am a mere sinner, in your hands, I am judged. Heaven may not be my abode, then let me be in purgatory.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Or if hell will be my place for loving men, then let me burn in the flames.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>With a swift movement, the sergeant pulled the lever down.<br/><br/><br/></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>My love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want to let you know that my heart is yours, from the moment we have encountered each other and by my last breath as I hang at the gallows at Tyburn. I want to thank you relentlessly for everything that you taught me. Our statuses did not hinder us from loving each other, and I adore that about you. Never forget every single poem and letter I wrote to you because I want my words, my works to reach you and only you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They might hunt you down my love, no one is guaranteed safe. It is funny to me, now I want to ask of you to forget about me and continue on with your life as if nothing happened between us. How lovely it is to reminisce mornings of dew with your tender gaze and soft lips on mine.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In another lifetime, when we might meet again I promise to act upon my words. I promise to stay with you until the Gods can't separate us anymore. I will love you better, I promise you that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You are the only one I love, for as long as I have lived.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Live on Edward, live for me.</em>
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</p><p>
  <b>- bonus -</b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Embers.</p><p>There were no stars to light up the sky, but the burning fire kept the whole town warm. It was like a bunch of toddlers playing with flames until it became a roaring flame. Burning anything and everything it touches. Edges of embers eating any particles that are flammable to its touch, wood, <em>oh wood</em> is a perfect carrier of fire.</p><p>Fire can also be linked to rage. A burning sensation that swells in your chest, or scratches your throat from screaming too much, and when others try to soothe your outbursts they end up getting scalded instead.</p><p>The raging fire, burning anything and everything it touches. His shoulders slouch, all alone in the fire. Inside, he is well. The hot and scalding fire makes its way to his fingertips, normally he would've flinched and screamed in pain. Yet he embraces it. Gradually, it scoots onto his arms, his shoulders, swallowing his whole body.</p><p>His eyes flutter softly, maybe amidst the orange hues and the hot temperature his vision did not fool him. A mysterious dark orb moved. A cold touch to his cheeks, light and feathery; almost ghostly.</p><p>
  <em>"Bretton?"</em>
</p><p>He will die with the fire, thinking of him.</p><p>My, a perfect contrast between emerald and ember.<br/><br/><br/><br/></p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this was originally part of my one-shot book, but I reckon it'll be much better if I upload it separately. hope that's alright with you :))</p></blockquote></div></div>
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